The Borgia Legacy
by carriebess
Summary: Nico, the son of Micheletto de Corella, becomes a master of the blade in order to protect the family that he loves.
1. Chapter 1

The old man sat on a stone bench that had been placed beneath the spreading branches of a cypress tree. A few rays of late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating a wealth of white hair that curled luxuriously to stooped shoulders. The scent of grapes hung heavy in the air as they neared the final ripening, the vines beginning to brown as they sensed the approach of winter. The quiet hum of a thousand bees dancing among the lush vegetation, blending with the faint sound of the water where it lapped against the shore.

"Nico," the old man called, his voice a rasp. The hat his wife insisted upon lay discarded at his feet. "Bring your things."

"Papa," the boy protested, caught in the act of sneaking down the path to the village. "I was…"

"You were just going to the baker's girl, hoping she would let you beneath her skirts," Micheletto de Corella peered at his son, eyes dark blue beneath white eyebrows. When Nico's face flamed the old man began to chuckle. "Time enough for that later. Go, bring your weapons. I would see you with them once more."

Nico grumbled as he retrieved the weapons from the cellar, muttering curses about the demands of irascible fathers. It was always _Move faster_ or _Shoulders back_ or _From your center_. The other boys in the village were not encumbered by hours spent each day in practice. They had the freedom to explore, to race , and to chase after willing girls. Their sleep was not crowded by nightmares.

Although he had not yet reached his 12th year, Nico had grown tired of the course his life had been set upon. None of it was of his choosing.

The martial training had begun as soon as he could walk, when his father had placed a carved wooden sword in his hand. The shape of the blade had been imprinted on his earliest memory, double edged blade with the elaborately curved guard. From there they had progressed to blunts, shortened forms of the weapons. Nico parried and thrust and jabbed with them until the childish lines of his body had been replaced by lean muscle.

And the blades were not all his father and mother bade him learn. Languages and strategy, manners and poison blended in his mind, the disjointed melody of his youth. Each facet of his training sought to make him into a weapon that could be wielded as easily on the battlefield as in the halls where laws were made. Though his parents had moved in the shadows, he was trained to walk the line between worlds: a warrior and a scholar, an assassin and an advisor to princes.

Returning to his father's side, Nico arranged the weapons in a semi-circle on the ground at his feet. They flashed in the sunshine, the finest blades that could be purchased. When they had returned from Ferrara, his father had sent for the sword maker and had Nico outfitted with weapons fit for the wealthiest nobleman. It was a fortune in blades, perhaps his father's entire fortune, for each was blade perfectly balanced and honed to a razor's edge, lacking gaudy decoration but elegant and deadly in their deceptive simplicity.

"The sword," Micheletto called.

Nico bowed to his father and slid the sword into the sheath at his waist. In a flash of movement he withdrew it and began sliding through the guards: the prima, seconda, and terza, finishing with the settima, the point of the sword held diagonally along the outside of his left leg.

They had become so familiar to him that they were no longer forms; they had become battles fought against a single opponent. He could clearly picture the other facing him across the grass, movements quick as a striking snake, with curling dark hair and his sister Lucia's beautiful face. **Faster**! his shadow partner whispered, leading him through lunges and riversos, side steps and feints.

A rock sailed through the air. Without pausing, Nico struck it away with the flat of his blade.

"One dagger."

Nico stooped and plucked one of the black daggers from the grass. He crouched, then struck, trying to catch his adversary beneath the ribs with a low outside attack.

 **I am faster than you,** the figure in black hissed. **Stronger**.

Nico dodged the blade aimed at his heart and tumbled forward, coming up behind and driving the blade between exposed shoulder blades. Sweat was beginning to trickle down his face, turning red hair dark.

"The small buckler."

Nico thought that his father's voice had changed and became concerned. They all watched the old man, who had seemed to fade by the hour after his last quest. Pausing as he bent to pick up the small round shield, Nico cast a quick eye to where the old man sat. "Papa?" he asked. "Should I call for Mother?"

"No," his father said, a half smile curling his lips. "Not yet. Your form is perfect, Nico, but guard this." He tapped his chest, and Nico was unsure whether he meant the font of all human emotion or his breastbone. "It is the greatest weakness. Now the small buckler."

Nico slipped the dagger into it's sheath and curled his left hand around the leather strap of the buckler. His forearms were beginning to ache from the exertion and the sun beat down with merciless heat upon his head. The light tunic and hose he wore allowed him freedom of movement, and he thought how wretched it would be to fight in full armor beneath a blazing sun. I will not, he silently told the man who watched him with an enigmatic smile, poised like a cat ready to strike. I will stay here and make wine and fish.

 **Fool** , the shadow laughed, then slashed at him with his sword. Nico caught it the on the buckler, straining beneath the weight of it. **Your fate is already decided.**

With a mighty push Nico rose to his feet and brought his sword up, preparing to strike. A small noise, no louder than the flight of an insect, alerted him to the danger. He caught the thrown dagger with the buckler, interrupting it's path to the soft earth at his feet. The dagger buried deep in the wood.

"Good. Two swords."

Nico replaced the buckler on the grass and picked up the other sword. It was an exact duplicate of the one already in his hand. He flexed his wrists, warming them, and drew a figure eight pattern in the air. The blades hummed, coming alive in his hands.

Across from him, Cesare Borgia saluted with a single blade and began to circle him in the grass. From the time of his earliest memories, Micheletto had spoken of the man he called his "Master." It was only on the journey to rescue Lucia, when he had shed first blood, that Micheletto de Corella had finally named the man and told him of years spent in service to the Borgia family. From then on the form that Nico fought against began to take on a sharper image. Dark, curling hair would fly about his face. The smile was a wolf's, full of predatory delight. And the eyes were his sister's, golden as honey on a summer afternoon when she was happy.

Nico moved slowly at first, leading with his right hand. His opponent only had one sword, but experience had taught Nico not to be fooled by the appearance of weakness. When Cesare struck it was as if a whirlwind had been unleashed.

 **Will you defend them?** the shadowy figure asked, striking at Nico's head and then his chest in a flurry of movements, metal clanging on metal.

 **Yes** , Nico answered, and his voice had somehow become deeper, the tones of a man instead of a boy. **Always**. He brought the other sword to bear and they formed a liquid series of movements, dancing faster and brighter, like lightening when it struck.

Nico laughed, jubilant. This was what his father had always sought to teach him, the moment when the blades ceased to be weapons, and instead became an extension of his body. Like quicksilver they flashed, driving the sweating figure across the grass until he fell to his knees, a blade at both sides of his throat.

Cesare looked up at him, eyes full of things that Nico could not yet name. Slowly at first the figure began to fade, the black leather garb melting into shadow, golden skin no more than mist in the rising dusk.

 **There is nothing left we can teach you.**

Nico flung his hair out of his eyes and began to grin. He had never felt more alive than at that moment, more filled with the utter certainty of his was no fisherman, no farmer. All that his father had sought to teach him made sense at last. Nico de Corella was a warrior. He would carve his own space in the world and none would ever dare harm that which was precious to him.

"Papa! Did you see?" He called, and then knelt to wipe the moisture from his blades. "With both swords!"

There was no answer. Nico straightened, swords laying forgotten on the grass.

"Papa?"

Micheletto de Corella had slumped forward, hands still clasping the gnarled wooden crutch he had used. Soft white hair blew in the breeze, curling around a weathered face and closed eyes.

He would have started forward, disbelieving, but a hand curved over his shoulder. His mother, the silent one in a family marked by its stealth, her face marked by the silvery fall of an ocean of tears.

"He is at peace at last," she whispered, and together they watched the light play across the dead man's face.

They buried him by the sea, and Nico could not hear the sound of the waves for the grief pounding in his ears. His eyes burned, as though acid flowed through his veins, but he could not cry. Crying for children, and he had done with those years.

"I would see you practice once more," the old man had said. A dying wish, a final command. As the priest droned on and on, saying kind, untrue things about the man that was his father, Nico looked to his mother, whose face had turned to stone in grief, and his sister. Lucia, the hidden one, all that remained of the Borgia legacy.

The danger to his family had not yet passed. Others would come, seeking to harm those he loved and Nico swore on his father's grave that he would see them safe.


	2. Chapter 2

A man came trudging up the dirt path as though the road behind him had been long. Dust lay thick upon dark hair, matting the curls to his head. Where it mingled with sweat the dust formed a thick paste that slid down the exposed neck in muddy droplets and caked in the web of lines that formed the canvas of a weathered face.

Nico watched him from the lattice of vines that edged the path to the Villa. The straw hat that Nico wore shaded skin that easily burned, and he clipped tendrils with mindless ease, moving through the green rows. In the distance he could hear a woman singing as she worked, low and sweet, the melody then echoed by a male voice.

Nico left the vines he had been tending, and approached the traveler.

"Whom do you seek?" Nico asked.

"I seek the master of this place," the man wheezed dryly, casting longing eyes at the well, where a bucket waited. Though the days had yet to achieve the warmth of summer, when heat soaked into the stones, the sun overhead blazed golden in a cerulean sky. "May I?"

"Of course," Nico said, and walked with him to the well, taking the opportunity to observe the stranger closely. He was not from Grosetto; Nico could name every man in the village. And not Siena; no man of the north wore such bright colors. His father had taught him many things before he died: of poisons and swords, death and the tending of grapes, but no skill had proven more valuable than the reading of people, the ability to discern their strengths and weaknesses with a glance. Though tall and strong, the man before him was no soldier. He had the look of a tradesman, and a Roman. His kidskin shoes were cut for city dwelling, not the dry lanes of the countryside and the extra flesh around his middle showed that he was unused to vigorous labor.

The man took a long drink from the bucket and smacked his lips in appreciation. He unwound a cloth from his neck and dipped it in the bucket and used it to wipe his face. "My throat no longer tastes of dirt. Many thanks."

"If you have hunger, you are welcome to join us for the evening meal."

"Your offer is kind, but I must return." The other man looked at him in amusement. "You must be high in your master's regard, to dispense his hospitality so readily, and without his permission." He looked Nico up and down, eyeing the bright copper hair and angelic features.

Nico did not disabuse the man of the notion that he was a pampered servant and merely shrugged. "What business have you with him?"

"My…master," there was a hesitation in the words "seeks one skilled in the art of dispensing justice. Tell your master to come to the inn this night, to a private room where they may speak." He flipped Nico a coin. "For your pains."

Fingering the coin, Nico watched the departing man. He would need to speak with his mother.

Two figures approached the inn, their figures concealed by long dark cloaks worn against the chill of an early spring night. No more than an inch separated their heights, and they moved with a similar quiet grace.

After a few words to the innkeeper, they were shown to a private chamber, where the remnants of a meal still lay spread out on the fish that was their village's livelihood lay on trenchers, glassy eyes staring and delicate ivory bones shorn of flesh. Rats scurried outside the pool of candlelight, impatient and ravenous. Their eyes shown ruby in the scant illumination.

Observe first, his father whispered in his ears. Always, before you open your mouth.

Nico stayed a pace behind his mother and cast his eyes about the room. In a corner by the fireplace a person waited in the deepest shadows, cloaked and hooded, only visible because of shining eyes in the spreading darkness. The man who had come to the villa was there, and a knife too large to be used for meals waited on the table. The bottle of wine waiting amidst the detritus of the meal was nearly empty.

The man's face flushed with anger when he saw who had entered. An intemperate reaction, Nico thought. He must be far gone with drink already.

"A woman and the boy? What is this?" He rose, and moved to grasp Nico by the arm.

Nico slid under the grasping arm and hooked his foot behind the man's leg. He set him off balance with only the smallest jerk, and then followed him to the ground, pinning him by the throat with the knife slid from the table.

"I am no servant," he said, pressing with the blade until a trickle of blood rain down the man's collar to the floor. "You asked for the master of the house and I am come." He drew back the blade and lifted his eyebrows in inquiry. The man beneath him nodded, and Nico moved to his feet.

The other man struggled up, breathing as though it pained him. When fully upright he rushed forward, growling, unstoppable as a bull in his fury, trying to grasp Nico's arms. Nico twisted, and brought the knife up and slammed the flat of the blade against his temple, bringing the attack to a stop with a pained cry. At the same moment there was a rushing sound and a hollow thump as a dagger buried itself in the wood across the room only a hairsbreadth from the hood of the seated figure.

"Unless you wish me to end your mistress," his mother said, "you will desist."

A laugh sounded from the dark, the sound like cream falling over stones. "How did you know I was female?"

"Few men wear rose scent,"

The figure stood and crossed the room in a smooth glide, throwing back her hood. The sudden reveal of her face was shocking, like the sun emerging from the clouds after a storm. The lady who had been cloaked in darkness was beautiful, brown of hair and eye, with a face only little touched by frost. "Gio," the woman said gently, helping the cursing man to his feet. "Go get more wine."

"I..." he seemed to have difficulty finding the words. "I would stay and protect you." He cast a poisonous glance over his shoulder at Nico. "That one is slippery as an eel."

"My son defended himself, he was not the aggressor," Betta said.

"Go," the mysterious woman said, urging him to the door. They waited in silence as the sound of the man's retreating footsteps descended to the crowded room beneath. "My apologies," she said, speaking very softly. "He…worries for me."

"Can he be trusted?" Betta asked sharply.

"He is my brother. If I can not trust him, I am doomed." She took a seat and began carefully arranging the folds of her golden gown and brushing her sleeves with nails that had been buffed to glossy perfection. She used her beauty as a weapon, Nico saw, noticing how each slow movement was carefully designed to showcase the perfection of her form or the loveliness of her features.

His mother was eyeing her and creases deepened on her brow. "What business did you seek with my husband, who has gone on to his final reward?"

"I seek justice," she said, and her voice lost it's smooth sensuality and gained a harsh edge. "The man who dwelt here was said to be an assassin without equal."

"Our son is his equal and will see to your needs, " his mother said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

It had taken Nico hours to convince her, and if their need not been dire he would not have succeeded. Though a great store of gold lay in wait for Lucia as dowery, those that remained her caretakers at the villa were not so richly blessed. The years of the war and the growing number of cousins who resided with them had drained the coffers of ready gold. The wine in the cellars had another year left to bring it to full maturity and the harvest had been poor. Without gold to buy more grain, the next season would bring hunger to their lives.

"Thirty gold pieces," the woman said, naming the man she wished to end and the manner of his death.

"Fifty."

"Our Lord was sold for less."

"Our Lord did not reside in a plague ridden city guarded by Cardinal Bibbiena's men. Fifty."

The woman agreed, and a week later Nico took the road to Rome. At his mother's insistence he traveled with his cousin Vitello in a cart loaded with the last of the wine that was to be sold, hoping it would fetch a better price in the city.

Vitello was the oldest of his cousins, and the least intelligent. After enduring constant insults and jibes for the first two days of the journey, Nico had waited until his cousin had fallen asleep and then bound him to a tree. An hour of blades thrown between Vitello's spread thighs had ended the torment, though he'd had to suffer his cousin's petulant silence until the city rose before them like an aged but beautiful maiden among the hills. He left his cousin at the gates of after selling the wine for a good price and entered the city.

Though Nico had never trod the streets of Rome he knew them, like a memory passed through his parent's blood. In the distance the splendor of a new basilica was slowly rising atop the tomb of St. Peter, constructed from the stone of pagan shrines. The music of the fountains was a stream of gold, pleasant to his ears. Hovels were built into the sides of crumbling ruins, and statues with grotesque faces peered from beneath dense vegetation. In each corner he spied doves and falcons, stray dogs and beggar children jostling for space. There were mountains of freshly baked bread and exotic spices imported from distant lands in the markets and people from each port in Christendom passed him in a whirl of brightly colored fabric and raucous laughter.

Church bells tolled in the distance as he walked along the path. Holy week approached, and Rome was crowded with the faithful streaming in from the countryside. Though he had been reared on tales of the great city, Nico was unprepared for the layers of noise, providing a constant backdrop to every thought: the screams of the sellers at the market, the low hum of the harlots murmuring to church men in holy vestments, the gurgling of the river. And beneath all of the other noises, Nico thought he could hear the whisper of ghosts from each crumbling stone.

Nico passed unremarked in the throng, seeming no different from the hundreds of other young apprentices. His garments were poor and had seen decades of use. The knife he carried was suitable for eating, and there was no gold in the purse at his belt.

After an hour of walking, he located his quarry. On the banks of the Tiber rose a newly constructed palace of remarkable beauty, like a jewel reflected in the water. Across the street Nico found a shadowed recess where he settled down to wait and to watch and to learn. The habits of those who dwelt there. The doors. The windows, which were not kept shuttered.

For hours he listened to noises emerging from a chamber on the second floor; wild laughter interspersed with ecstatic cries that left little doubt as to what was occurring. Servants entered and left through the door at the back, and he caught snatches of conversation.

"At it for days on end, the master…"

"Like a goat, with that little whore.."

"Plague."

"Plague."

"He'll catch a fever…"

"Plague."

Plague had indeed come to the city again. The dead were laid out in on the streets, wrapped in the bedclothes where they had died. It was not the multitudes that had died a hundred years before, but he could see the marks of fear and despair on the faces of those who remained, wondering if the next night would see the emergence of the bubos that signaled death.

Nico found a meal and shelter at an inn. The next night he returned. After hours of silent watching he scaled the wall, clinging to the elaborate moldings that festooned the palace. He entered through an open window and emerged in a ready crouch. Blood pumped in his ears with a sound like a drum, and the hand gripping his knife trembled.

The large chamber looked the scene of a bacchanalian feast, with bottles of wine and the remnants of food laying scattered on each surface. An easel sat in the center of the chamber, illuminated by a patch of moonlight, and Nico saw the rendered form of a beautiful young woman with flowing golden hair.

Nico kept to the shadows and approached the bed, ready to flee at a moment's notice. Sounds seemed to have amplified, and Nico was achingly conscious of his ragged breathing, the scrape of his leather slippers along the wood floor, and the snores of the man who lay sprawled in a posture of utter abandon next to a naked woman with golden curls. The brown haired artist was fat, with puddles of white flesh, and from his open mouth there emerged a stentorian noise.

Did this man's actions warrant death? Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino had cast aside his mistress of many years in favor of another even as he prepared to wed the niece of a cardinal. He had forced the woman popularly called La Fornarina to take abortifacients when she conceived, and then abandoned her when the years of her fruitfulness and beauty had waned. Unless he chose to provide for her at his death, Margarita Luti would be destitute.

"Are you here to take him?" a voice whispered, startling Nico so badly that he almost dropped the twist of paper in his hand. Nico did not answer, only stood looking at the naked girl. She could be no older than his 12 years, though the blue eyes that watched him appeared as ancient and careworn as the streets of the city.

"Well, get on with it. Or else he will wake, and want to mate."

"Does this man deserve death?" Nico whispered, his voice ghostly in the quiet room.

She rolled from the bed, a golden haired angel in the moonlight. As she walked to stand next to Nico, he saw the marks that the painter's lust had left on her body, the bruises and scratches, bites that marred the slim line of her neck, the musky smell of seed slipping down her thighs. "No more than I," she said, and there was so such sadness in her voice that it removed the last vestiges of his hesitation. Nico brought the fold of paper to the man's lips and white powder poured forth, coating the blackened teeth and pink tongue.

"Will you take me as well?" she asked, no concern in her voice.

He shook his head, and turned to go, but the girl caught his arm and led him across the room to a small alcove next to a window. With a finger beneath his chin she tilted his face up to meet the light and sighed. "You are only a child," she whispered.

And because he was no child, because the thrill of the hunt and the girl's nearness had raised a wild emotion in him, Nico jerked her flush against his body. Through the layers of his tunic he could feel the crush of her breasts against his chest. "My face only."

"So it would seem," she said, and pulled him to the floor.

Time blended together in his mind like a whirlpool: the first taste Nico had of a woman, the blood pounding in his ears, the curls of hair against his fingers, and the watered silk of her body holding him until he longed to cry out. The taste of her was one he never forgot, like honey steeped in blackest regret. He drowned in it, reveling in the sensations, and emerged gasping like a fish thrown onto the shore.

They lay together, her head pillowed on his chest, until a chorus of birds signaled the arrival of dawn. The girl pulled away and stood, crossing to the table and returning with a bottle of wine. She drank, then passed the bottle to Nico. He drank, and was surprised by the foul taste of it.

"What is in the wine?" he asked.

"Wormwood," she answered, and then urged him to drink again. "You must go. He will awaken soon."

"It will take days for him to die," Nico warned. "You could come with me," he offered, thinking of what agony the poison would bring.

She laughed, and moved to touch his cheek. "Go, before he awakens," she said, motioning towards the open window. When he would have turned to kiss her once more, she drew back.

"What is your name?"

"Beatrice," she said. She looked at him and sighed, the bitterness of her face in place once more. "At first I thought you were an angel come to take me to my rest. Now I think you may be a demon. What are you?"

"I have yet to decide." He clothed himself, pulling on his tunic and hose. He was conscious of a faint buzzing in his ears, and the shadows on the wall had begun to move. Beatrice crossed the room and slipped into bed next to the painter and pressed her body against his. The man's breathing changed as he neared consciousness.

With a nod, Nico slipped through the window. A moment of weightless hanging from the ledge and he landed softly. He ran through the streets, feeling the wine clouding his senses. The dark spaces around the building were taking shape. Laughter rose up, taunting him, and the mists of morning began to swirl.

"Bring out your dead," came the cry, and the creaking noise of a wagon pulled by a single horse. In an alley Nico tripped over a cloth draped bundle and sprawled. The cloth fell away, revealing his sister Lucia's beautiful face, pale and lifeless.

"No!" he shouted, and scrambled back. Dawn was breaking around him, illuminating the black robed figure loading corpses onto a wagon already heavily laden.

"Bring me your dead," came the cry again, and the figure turned to face him. Death was an old woman with no eyes, only shadowed places and a mouth as full and plump and rapacious as a whore's. Death looked on him as though she loved him, for he was one of her own angels, sent to walk the earth and reap a bountiful harvest.

Nico awoke as a bucket of water was thrown in his face.

"Get up, you rat!" a man shouted, nudging him from the doorway where he had slept. The sun was high in a cloudless sky. He brushed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled through town, weaving like a drunkard. Before he reached his cousin at the gate, Nico had thrown up twice, which cleared his head.

He would not sit next to Vitello on the cart as they left the city. He walked beside it, and burned the clothes he had worn in the fire. Then they neared Grosetto, Nico made his way to the beach, and bathed in the icy water. It cleansed his body, but did nothing to lift his spirits.

Never again, Nico decided, seeing his mother's drawn face as she waited for his return, the knowledge that her son was utterly changed stamped upon her face. The dagger in the dark was not to be his fate. Although he had earned the gold that would see his family through the coming year, it had cost him too dear.

Author's Note- If you enjoy my writing, I hope you will check out Words Left Unsaid by Elizabeth McGlone.


	3. Chapter 3

In the months following his return from Rome, the thoughts of Nico de Corella had become increasingly occupied by roads. They seemed magical to him, linking disparate parts of the Italian peninsula together, like blood traveling through the pathways of a great heart.

An ancient road ran along the coastline from the town of Grosetto to the villa that rested next to clear blue water. Pale and crumbling, the road hugged the cliffs before branching off to a separate path that lead north, past a hill where the remains of a pagan temple stood. Many more roads led from Grosetto. To the north where wars still raged. To the south and Rome.

Nico knew that he would have to take his own road soon. The need for it was an itch between his shoulder blades.

It had been an eventful day. After concluding a trip to the market, he had wandered through the town, gathering news of far-off kingdoms, scandals and alliances, the deeds of great men. The merchants of Grosetto had smiled and waved at him, the slim, boyish master of a fine estate, and brought out their pretty young daughters to serve him. Along with gifts for his mother and aunt, he purchased a dark traveling cloak from a peddler to be used in the next winter, his own bright garb no longer suited to his mood. Head down, he crossed to the tavern after a final stop at the butcher's stall.

The moment that Nico stepped through the doorway, the sounds abruptly ceased, as though they had been severed by a blade. The silence was so abrupt and complete that his muscles clenched, and he felt the sudden alertness of danger. He whipped his head about, expecting to see the approach of enemy soldiers, but the grimy door behind him was unoccupied.

Then Nico felt the press of every eye upon his back, and he sensed the change in the air. It was he that they watched with eyes grown round and terrified. Something had caused the people who had known him for years to fear him. A quick glance around the room showed him the likely cause.

Acting on instinct, Nico dropped the basket he clutched and pitched forward, catching his hip on the heavy table so forcefully that it shifted, spilling the drinks. He went down in a flurry of limbs and landed with his face squashed against a trussed chicken. The splendid cut of lamb his mother had ordered rolled from the basket and landed amidst the clods of dirt littering the floor.

The girl serving drinks gasped, and looked at Nico with a pulse hammering in her throat. From his position near her skirts he could see her trim ankles, dotted with the marks of flea bites. She had let him under her skirts only the week before and would blush when he entered the tavern.

Nico rose unsteadily to his feet, conscious that no one had offered him an arm. He rubbed his sleeve against his nose, which had begun to run after hitting the ground, and said, in a voice that broke with strain, "My mother will skin me."

It eased the tension, and the inn exploded into a chorus of laughter and good-natured taunts. Stefano, the miller's son, rushed forward and began helping him to dust off the meat. Fiora, the tavern keeper, offered him a rag to wipe off his face. He grinned up at her, keeping his expression open and trusting. With his red hair and slim build, he could choose to appear younger than his twelve years.

"What foolery," Fiora muttered, and tapped his cheek with her large hand. "You are a good lad, Nico."

"Aye, your cousin spins a wild tale," Stephano laughed, and clapped him on the back.

"A tale?" Nico asked, bright eyed. "The one he tells of the two nuns traveling from Florence…"

Fiora clapped her rough hands over her ears and then shooed him away. "Oh, not that one!" she laughed. "Else the priest will hear of it and set me a stern penance!"

Despite his apparent calm, Nico felt the icy bite of rage as he made his way to the corner, where his cousin sat with a group of ragged young men. They had not joined in the laughter, and eyed him with suspicion.

There were four men around Vitello, and they were older than his cousin, scarred by battle and a life that burned away what little kindness they might once have known. Glancing at their stained garments and hungry expressions, Nico suspected they were mercenaries returning to the wars.

"I must go back to the villa," he murmured to Vitello, keeping his voice pitched low.

Vitello did not look up from his drink and grunted. "I'll come later." Heavy shoulders hunched under his tunic and he carefully avoided Nico's gaze.

"You would walk back?" Nico asked with raised eyebrows. The cart loaded with food from the market waited outside. Flies buzzed, and from the open door of the tavern Nico could see the swish of the pony's tail from side to side. The heat of late afternoon lay oppressively on the village, rising in shimmering waves from the stones and the fields. The gold garnered by his trip to Rome had fed his family through the months of the spring, and the time of danger had passed. Summer blossomed, and the fish from the sea and the fruits of the garden filled their bellies. A noble from Siena had paid well for the wine that had matured in the cellars, and his mother's face no longer creased in worry.

As expected, Vitello downed the rest of his drink in an enormous swallow and rose. The past season had not been kind to his cousin. Once tall and strong, his handsome features had softened, with layers of fat now clinging to his frame. More than once his mother had remarked upon Vitello's resemblance to her father, and such was her tone that he knew it to be an insult.

After placing his basket in the back, Nico climbed into the wagon and sent the pony to trot with a flick of the reins. They rolled down the path that led to the villa in silence broken only by the occasional shouts of those that journeyed in the opposite direction.

When the Villa could be seen in the distance, Nico smacked his forehead and cursed. "I have forgotten the salt," he muttered. He turned and handed the reins to his cousin. "Continue on. I will run back."

Vitello grumbled unintelligibly. He took the reins and urged the pony into a trot. Longish dark hair fluttered in the breeze as he disappeared. Watching the retreating form, Nico desperately hoped that he was wrong.

Shaking himself, Nico turned and hurtled back down the road until sweat began to pour down his face. Instead of continuing south, Nico took a path that led into the surrounding hills. When he reached a rocky outcropping that looked down on a small valley lined with vibrantly green grass, he found a spot in the shade of a tree and waited. No more than an hour had passed before he saw them coming, sheep that moved like fluffy clouds among the dense vegetation. A boy walked with them, older than Nico by less than a year. His exposed arms showed wiry strength and his face was beginning to bear the marks garnered by a life spent beneath the hot rays of the sun.

Walking quietly, Nico descended from the hill, keeping to the hollows where shadows gathered. The boy's face was concealed by a large brimmed hat and his attention was so focused on his sheep that he did not hear Nico approaching.

"Eh," he called when he had drawn near, and caught Piero's arm.

Piero sprang to his feet. He saw Nico and flinched.

"What did my cousin say?" Nico asked. "I saw you there before you ran off. Tell me."

Piero tried to pull away but Nico held him firmly. With a resigned sigh, Piero stepped close and whispered, as though afraid the sheep would overhear his words. "He said your father served Il Valentino. That he killed with great skill and that he trained you to do the same. He said your mother was a whore to the Borgia, and that your sister was sired by…"

Although he felt a white-hot burst of rage, Nico dropped the boy's arm and doubled over in a fit of laughter. "Who is Lucia's father? The dead Borgia Pope, or the Lord God himself?" he asked, laughing as though it were the most preposterous thing he had ever heard.

Piero crossed himself. "Do not blaspheme," he cautioned, and pointed to the cerulean blue of the sky. "Or God will punish you."

Nico shook his head. "My family served the Antichrist. What have I to fear?"

Cringing, Piero crossed himself again. "Do not speak of such things." He glanced up at Nico, who had spent many afternoons on the lonely hillside watching over his flock. From the time of their earliest youth, they had been friends. There was a question in the boy's eyes, and Nico cursed silently even as answered.

"My cousin is a drunken fool," he said. "Do you remember when your father thrashed us for letting one of the sheep fall into the river?"

Piero rubbed his backside and winced. "I could not sit for days."

"And when the Widow threw her piss pot into my face?"

A small smile stretched Piero's face, lightening his expression. "That was last week. She found you with her only daughter!"

"Or when I hit my head and you had to pull me from the sea?"

"That was also last week. You drink too much."

Nico raised his hands in a gesture of frustration and waited with an expectant look on his face. Eventually, Piero nodded.

"Vitello is a fool," he conceded. "Come and help me with the sheep. There is a wolf about and I must wait with them until my father comes home."

After the furore of the past hours, Nico settled into the rocky hillside with a relieved sigh. Piero brought out a jug of wine that he had hidden and they drank together, laughing at the antics of the young lambs frolicking in the grass. The sun was fading behind the hills, painting the sky with vivid shades of scarlet and gold.

"They seem so small," Nico marveled, watching a snowy lamb born only weeks before nursing off its mother. Its tail twitched and danced with happiness. "Aren't you afraid for them?"

"Sometimes," Piero said, then turned so that he could look back at Nico. "But then I remember that there are many sheep in the world, and only a few wolves."

From his friend's face, Nico could see that Piero had guessed the truth. The hours Nico had spent at practice, the swords, the visits from nobles who would have no other reason to frequent the home of a simple farmer and his wife. Piero knew what he and his family were. The secret so many had died to protect had been exposed by the ramblings of a bitter fool.

A treacherous sheen of moisture welled in Nico's eyes, and he turned so that the other boy could not see. Sea birds screamed overhead, and Nico could faintly hear the crashing waves as the tide moved in.

"I will leave soon," he said.

"I know," Piero replied, and passed him the jug with an amused smile. "Good hunting."

Nico wiped an annoying trickle of blood from his nose and crouched beneath a white stone pillar. For the last hour, it had bled intermittently. Three of the four mercenaries who had waited for his cousin in the temple had died easily, their reactions slowed by wine stupor and surprise. It had taken no more than two thrown blades and a single thrust of his sword to bring them down. The last man had fought like the devil, and his fist had caught Nico in the face as he fell.

Loading the dead bodies onto the cart had proved more challenging than the act of killing. Nico felt nothing as he rolled them down the cliff and into the sea, their bodies spread wide as though to take flight. No grief, no fear, nothing.

Vitello had taken his leave of the Villa in the pre-dawn hours, struggling with the weight of his pack. The announcement that he would leave with the mercenaries the next morning had been greeted with cries of horror by his family, who could imagine no life more pleasant. Though Vitello had asked to be given one of the horses, Nico had refused, resulting in thinly veiled threats that Nico had chosen to ignore during a farewell dinner where an enormous quantity of wine was consumed. The next morning Nico had slipped away as his aunt clutched her son in farewell, and felt his mother's dark, knowing eyes follow his movements.

Nico waited until his cousin had pulled the pack from his shoulders before emerging from the ruin. Wiping at the sheen of moisture on his face, Vitello looked around, expecting to see his companions. He said nothing, merely waited until Vitello noticed him leaning against a pillar, a sword held in each hand.

His cousin laughed, the sound edged with bitterness. Turning his head to the side and shrugging his shoulders, Vitello crouched down, as though he meant to grapple. "Hmm. The bitch's little whelp. Why didn't you just try and slit my throat? That old cripple taught you how. I saw him. I saw everything, heard even more."

Nico said nothing. He circled his wrists and the gleaming blades sparkled as they caught the morning rays.

"I waited for you to try something," Vitello said, and he moved closer to the road, as though he meant to run. "Think you are so mighty, don't you, you and those two whores." Sweat was pouring off his beefy face. "I shoulda let that bitch burn, all the good it did me."

Nico moved, blocking escape. He would allow none of his anger and disappointment to propel him into rash action. "My mother gave you everything, and this is how you repay her. You are nothing but an ungrateful dog, cousin, who thought himself superior because he lived among the sheep."

An uneasy chuckle burst from Vitello's lips. "And what would that make you, cousin? A worthless shepherd, like your friend?" he jeered.

Nico stalked forward, ready to strike. The scorn of his cousin held no meaning for him. He knew what he was. For the love of the family that bore him, he had tried to hide from the knowledge, to give them time to let him go. But he was done hiding. The last vestiges of his innocence burned away, taking with it the boy he had been. He brought his swords up and smiled at the light of fear dancing across his cousin's face.

"No, cousin. I am the wolf."


	4. Chapter 4

Nico lathered his hands in the basin. No matter how many times he'd changed the water and scrubbed to the elbows with strong soap, he could still see where the blood had stained his skin. The mark of it had become embedded in the flesh.

There was no remorse in him for the killing of his cousin and the mercenaries; it had been necessary for the safety of his family. And yet the blood staining his hands would not wash away. The death he had dealt was not in the heat of battle, or to feed his family. It had been a decision made with no emotion. Cold, as he was learning to be.

"Why?" came a soft voice behind him.

Nico did not turn. Though faint, the noise his mother made slipping through the door had alerted him to her presence. "It needed to be done."

His mother exhaled, grief and sadness so heavy in her that he could sense their weight. He continued scrubbing at his hands until the skin had turned pink and tingled as blood rushed to the surface.

"How alike we are, my son," she whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. In the small metal mirror that hung on the wall he could see the faint outline of her fingers, white like death's embrace. "Come with me."

He left the washstand and followed her into the room that she had occupied with her husband. Once it had been an airy sanctuary, the place he would hide from the fury of storms or the terrors that stalked in the night. Now it stood shadowed and veiled against the warm sun, it's furnishings draped in heavy dark cloth. His mother crossed the room and removed a large bundle from a carved chest and sat it on the bed. She motioned him forward.

"I should have given them to you sooner," she said, voice containing the whisper of tears.

Unwrapping the bundle Nico saw, shining as though they had been in use only the day before, the weapons his father had carried during the years of service to Cesare Borgia: knives and stilettos, poisons in vials and garrote wires. And in a battered leather scabbard, a sword.

"How did you recover this?" Nico asked, touching the sword with awe. He had never seen the weapon in use, and supposed it lost during the years of his father's imprisonment.

"My lady Lucrezia…" Her voice faltered, "sent it to me, many years ago."

Some of the weapons were not finely made, though all possessed a keen edge and superb balance. There were flaws in the long blade of the sword , and it's hilt had been battered by heavy use. A faint coppery stain shone on the garrote wire, and a trace of white powder remained in a vial. Cantarella, from the last life Micheletto had claimed.

"You have yet to reach your full height, but your father wished you to have them. They are a man's weapons, such as you have become, and will serve you well in the years to come."

He nodded, afraid his voice would betray him, and turned to leave with the bundle clasped in his arms. He had almost reached the door when her voice halted his footsteps.

"A messenger had arrived from the Duchess of Valentinois. Lucia is with child and has need of her family around her. Will you journey there with me?"

Excitement sparked in Nico's veins.

"Yes."

In the morning, Nico traveled to Grosetto and greeted the man sent by the Duchess. Far advanced in years, Andre de Chauvigny had grizzled hair and an ample belly layered upon a form that must once have been hard and muscular. He extended an offer of passage to Marseille, and the protection of the Duchess's name.

It took no more than a score of days for the preparations to be completed. The evening before their scheduled departure, Nico walked the property, trying to imprint the look of it on his mind, the smells and feel of the land, which were as much a part of his childhood as the friends and cousins and the love of his family. Despite his excitement at the prospect of leaving, there was sadness, and a bone-deep certainty that he would never return.

Under the guidance of his aunt and her husband the villa would thrive, as unchanging as an insect caught in amber, awaiting his mother's return. It was a good place, Nico reflected, walking to the cliffs and viewing it with a mercenary eye. The estate had been gifted by the Borgia family to serve as a refuge for a child whose lineage could never be publicly acknowledged, and the family who protected her. Such wealth was the equal to many men's dreams, and yet his own destiny lay far from this shoreline. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name.

Summer would soon come to an end, he thought, walking through the vineyard, touching his fingers to woody branches and curving tendrils of delicate green. The air held a hint of chill in the early morning hours, signaling the coming change of the seasons. The wine that would come from this year's grapes would produce a sweet vintage, flavored by abundant rains and warm sunshine, spiced by love, and vengeance, and murder. He had a moment's regret for leaving the vines. The care of them had been a tangible link to one he still mourned. He had learned to walk there, trailing after his father, watching as the setting sun painted the white strands of hair with red fire. Then he'd no knowledge that his father was old, scared by torture in the Castel Saint' Angelo. That the hands, which were as twisted as the branches of an olive tree...

Nico stopped, his unshod feet half-buried in the tilled earth of the hillside. Panic seized him. Though he concentrated, he could no longer recall the appearance of his father's hands. Or the tenor of his voice. And the face was becoming a blur as time painted over the image, stealing its clarity.

"No," he whispered, terrified that the memories were lost forever. There was a burning sensation his chest at the knowledge of what was lost, and it clawed a fiery path to his eyelids. He wanted to curl into a ball against the ache. In the months since his father's death, Nico had avoided thinking of the old man, trying to assuage the grief. But his mind had done it's work too well and the precious recollections had gone.

The elements seemed to share his distress, for the clouds, which had bloomed thick and tempestuous overhead let forth with a light spattering of rain.

Fear set Nico in motion. Moving swiftly, he followed the path from the vineyard. Puddles formed in the mud beneath his feet and water soaked through his doublet.

"Papa," he gasped as he ran, looking for some remnant of the old man. The crutch he had used, or the chair placed along the path where he could rest. Gone, they were all gone. As his father was gone. Nico's mind repeated the words over and over, beating a frantic rhythm. His father was gone, and he had nothing to remember him by. No portrait, only the lines of his own face and the weapons used to carry out a deadly purpose.

He returned home and found the courtyard empty, the other residents having taken shelter long before. There, he realized, seeing the small bench beneath a tree, a place where memories bloomed like wild flowers on a mountain hillside. He flew into the villa, ignoring the concerned faces of his cousins, and retrieved the weapons he practiced with each day, the swords and daggers, the buckler and cloak. He ran back to the garden and arranged them in a semicircle on the water-soaked grass. He took a moment to steady himself, and quiet his breathing. Lightening crashed overhead, illuminating the sky for a single dizzying instant . In the stable the horses whinnied in terror, and the chickens edged deeper into their nests.

After a heartbreaking moment of silence Nico heard it, the rasp of the old man's voice, damaged by months of screaming.

 _The sword._

Nico picked up the sword, moving it through the positions so fast that it formed a silver blur. The smell of water-drenched vegetation swamped him, green like youth and love. Basil bloomed in pots along the wall, it's spicy aroma tickling his nostrils, blending with the rosemary used to flavor his mother's bread, and sage, which spoke to him of the earth, and a longing for what had past.

Deflected droplets soaked his face, though it might have been tears. Years of repetition had trained his muscles, and they flowed seamlessly, letting the memories stream forth. He was a child again, his arms held steady by the man who crouched behind him.

" _Good, my son_ ," Micheletto whispered, and the rough hands against his skin made Nico giggle.

Praise had always come in great floods during those lessons, though Nico's childish mind had noted only the faults. The pride Micheletto felt in his son's accomplishments had invigorated the old man, keeping him upright when he should have been in bed. Death had ridden on his shoulders for a year, close enough that each moment could bring about the end. Only his foolish offspring had been too blind to see it.

 _The buckler._

Nico picked up the buckler, balancing the small shield in his left hand. The images came hard and fast, pouring like water from the overflowing gutters: when he had clumsily flung the buckler, and the metal circlet had flown through the yard, striking his mother in the back. They had hidden from her angry cries, and then picked flowers in recompense. When the buckler had slipped, striking Nico so hard in the face that he had cried and cried, and the old man had wiped his tears away and held him, crooning a broken song.

 _The dagger._

 _The spear._

 _The cloak._

As Nico progressed through the forms his father's face became clear again, scarred by time and tragedies. After wiping his forehead with a sleeve and slicking back soaked hair, Nico stooped and picked up the second sword.

" _Not for a battle,_ " Micheletto cautioned the first time he had introduced the difficult technique, practiced only by those most skilled with the blade. " _There, a shield would serve you in greater stead. But against one man,_ " Micheletto illustrated the movement slowly, blocking with one blade while the other plunged deeply into a transparent heart, " _You will be unbeatable."_

The swords snapped to the final position, one blade guarding his chest, and the other waiting, poised for a strike. He held them steady until the pain burned in his limbs, driving out all other thoughts. When it became too much and the memories burned like fire he relented, and the swords clattered to the soft earth. Nico collapsed, struggling to contain himself. His father had molded him, tempered him like steel, and loved him. He could ask for no greater legacy.

"I will find a way to remember," he pledged. "I swear it."


	5. Chapter 5

A quiet presence shifted next to him, clinging to the rail of the ship as it tossed in the waves. Dawn had come, signaling the start of their journey, and in the distance he could see the outline of the villa. The light from a candle burned from one of the windows, guttering with faint illumination. Through the dark veil his mother wore Nico thought he saw the glimmer of a tear, hastily brushed away.

"My sister," she said, "has always hated goodbyes. It is a trait we share."

"Will you return, Mother?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, voice betraying no hint of doubt. "It is my home, the only one I have ever known. Someday, when I feel the press of years upon my old bones, I will return, that I may rest beside your father."

"Not for many years," he said, squeezing her hand. The muscles beneath the black widow's garb were still firm, and he knew his mother to be both strong and capable far beyond her advanced age.

Next to them, a deep voice layered with a Gallic intonation interrupted their conversation. Andre de Chauvigny seemed intent on the telling of his life story during the course of the voyage, and he had begun as soon as they boarded the ship. Nico let him ramble on as they sailed first to Genoa and then to Marseille, glad to have a reprieve from his own restive thoughts.

"This was not the first time I have visited your land. I was part of the cavalry that served Valentino, him that was once called…"

"Cesare Borgia," Betta interrupted, her face set behind the black veil. She radiated impatience with the soldier's interminable posturing so clearly that Nico felt a stirring of pity. Were he to annoy her too greatly, Andre de Chauvigny would never return home, experienced warrior though he might be.

"Had you met him?" The knight seemed crestfallen, that the splendor of his association could be eclipsed.

"I had that pleasure," Betta said, the trace of a smile hidden from all did not know her well. Nico raised his eyebrows slightly and a flush colored her face. Not the Holy Father, Nico surmised, remembering the slur his cousin had hurled. Il Valentino.

"Hmmph," Andre was at a loss of how to continue. Then he brightened as he looked to the west. "A storm blows this way!" He said gleefully, and his eyes misted over. "When I traveled to Navarre with Valentino…"

The knight's words continued, but Nico paid him little mind. In the distance, a line of black storm clouds was approaching, and he eyed them with concern. Though he suffered no effects from the tossing of the ship upon the waves, his mother was a notoriously bad traveler, and her face had grown paler as they ventured farther from into the churning depths. She caught his scrutiny and shrugged, face resigned.

When they finally arrived at Marseille, Nico was forced to carry his mother ashore. The storm had lasted for days, tossing the ship until his mother could do no more than clutch at a bucket and moan in misery. The storm spent itself as they neared France, turning instead to the south. They disembarked from the small craft as the sun was setting, and the force of the waves crashing to the shore sent icy droplets against their faces.

Nico breathed in the briny tang of the air, relishing the feel of the new land. His eyes darted around. Marseille was a huge city spreading out in all directions, and rich beyond his wildest imaginings. Strong white walls surrounded it, newly built to repel any invasion. Spices from impossibly distant kingdoms were carried ashore by dark skinned slaves. Herds of cattle and goats were driven through the streets. Bolts of brilliant cloth decked both the market stalls and the beautiful women who clustered there.

Cradled in his arms and unable to appreciate the glory that surrounded her, Elizabetta de Corella groaned. She weighed little more than a child and shivered uncontrollably. With her cracked lips and sunken eyes, she appeared to have aged a decade, and Nico sent for a healer as soon as they were settled in the comfortable lodgings that the Duchess had provided.

The healer, a stooped, aged man with a scar that formed a twisting cannon from his hairline to his jaw, decided that his mother was suffering from an excess of phlegm, and brought out a filthy knife and bowl to bleed her. Despite her weakened state, the man soon fled in terror, and his mother called Nico to her side.

"Go," she commanded from her sick bed. "Greet the Duchess in my stead. When I have recovered, I will join you."

"Who will care for you in my absence?" he asked, concerned by the continuing evidence of her frailty.

A trace of fire lit her expression. "I need no one to care for me, only for the ground to cease shifting beneath my feet." Then, seeing his concern, her tone softened. "There are servants here to attend me, my son, and I shall ask Monsieur de Chauvigny to stay and speak to me of Cesare Borgia. His excessive posturing will encourage the return of my health, if only to to quit his company. And when I have recovered, we will fly together to your sister's side."

Although verbose, Andre de Chauvigny was an efficient commander, and gathered a small company of men to escort Nico from Marseille to a chateau near Lyon, where the Duchess had taken leave from her court duties for a time. The landscape of the Rhone Valley spun in reckless flight past his eyes as they traveled, changing the horses often. Beautiful women with skin of dark honey smiled at him from small villages where flowers bloomed in profusion despite the late season, and patches of wild rosemary and clary sage grew among the ruins of another age. The land embraced Nico like a friend, and he gloried in it. The air in the valley was not so dry and seemed little touched by the coming autumn; rather it breathed warm and sultry, the caress of skin, dampened by the act of love.

After many day's travel they neared Lyon and the Chateau de Bagnols, where the Duchess of Valentinois waited.

The chateau sat on a small knoll overlooking an intensely green range of hills that rippled like water to the horizon. Comprised of a single massive building with curved edges, the chateau appeared both luxurious and capable of defending the inhabitants from attack. Constructed of warm, pale stone and surrounded by grape vines, it reminded him of home.

Liveried servants bustled in the yard, mingling with a company of men who comprised the Duchess's guard. He was allowed to refresh himself before being presented, and given a simple meal.

For his first meeting with the Duchess he wore black, the finest apparel at his disposal: black tunic and hose, soft black shoes that allowed him to glide along the stone halls. The traveling cloak he had purchased at Grosetto lay across his shoulders, it's deep hood suitable for hiding his features. Sounds echoed disconcertingly in the massive stone halls and wide courtyard of the chateau, which showed signs of disrepair. Spiders left dazzling displays of the spinner's art in every corner, and the tapestries and hangings that sought to warm the stark interior were frayed at the edges, and covered in dust.

The Duchess sat before a small table in front of a roaring fire. Though the afternoon burned warmly outside, the thick walls of the chateau chilled the air. Ladies finely clad waited nearby, sewing with demure expressions. As was his habit, Nico took note of the room's occupants and the various means by which he could escape, if it should it become necessary. Two men waited in an alcove, and watched his every move. Nico spared them no more than a glance. Had they possessed skills that would challenge him, they would have stood closer to their lady. He could have killed her and the attendants and left through the open door before the guards had traversed the room.

Spread out before the duchess were piles of ledgers and sheafs of correspondence . In her gown of midnight cloth accented with seed pearls, Louise de Borgia looked as remote as a queen who did not deign to notice his existence, though his arrival had been announced. It was a tactic whose purpose Nico recognized. He was meant to fidget and stammer before her glory, and learn his place.

So he stood still, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the Duchess. She looked no older than Lucia, and though not truly beautiful, what he could see of her face was striking. Strong of jaw and cheekbone, her features were carved, and attractive even while pinched in frustration. Dark hair that hinted at riotous curls was tamed by a jeweled hood, and her slender form radiated vitality.

A shout heard from the open window caught the duchess's attention, ending the silent contest of wills. After a word to one of her attendants , Louise de Borgia's gold-flecked eyes pierced him, and Nico felt a tingle of awareness shoot like lightening through his body. Power, his instincts screamed, and formidable intelligence, and something else that he struggled to define. There was a sense, looking into her proud face, that she could reshape the world according to her own desires, not limited by nebulous concepts such as morality or virtue. It was something he had seen infrequently in his sister, and in her, the force of it was muted by an impulse towards holiness. Louise, the Duchess of Valentinois, had few of her sister's scruples. This was Borgia, he realized, the family who would have conquered the world.

The Duchess studied him in turn, missing nothing. She lingered over the bright copper hair, newly washed and hanging in curls to his shoulders, and the jaw untainted by stubble.

"How lovely you are," she mused in flawless Italian.. "Though nothing like my dear Lucia."

Nico bowed, hand held over his heart."We share no blood, my lady, but she is my sister."

"And will you see to her protection and care?" The Duchess's right eyebrow formed a perfect arch as she studied him.

"With my life."

As though his answer pleased her, the Duchess presented a hand to be kissed.

Nico took the offered hand, heavy with jeweled rings, and bowed over it. In the second before his mouth met the skin of her knuckles he looked up, challenging her with the force of his gaze. He found her both stunning to behold and fascinating, and made no effort to disguise it.

An answering awareness lit the Duchess's features, then her expression turned quizzical. "How old are you, child. Sixteen?"

He bowed again, not correcting her estimation of his age. "I am no child," he answered.

"No, I think you are not," she said. "Your father was in service to my own?"

Nico nodded.

"Micheletto de Corella," she whispered. "Even I have heard rumors of my father's dark lieutenant. Would you serve me, as your father served Cesare Borgia? Do you possess skills that I could find of use?"

"The man who boasts of his skill often shames his teachers, my lady. But I have been well taught."

"Hmmm," she mused. "I know many men who would find your beauty and intelligence beguiling. You will sit next to me for the evening meal, that we may discuss this further."

"I place myself at your disposal, Duchessa," he murmured.

The Duchess laughed. "You speak as though you were a seasoned courtier, not a youth, Nico. How glad I am that you have come at last."

Throughout the course of the meal he was conscious of the duchess's close scrutiny. Her agile mind flitted from topic to topic, discussing the crumbling alliance of her king with Henry Tudor and the machinations of the Holy Father, the grand church he was beggaring Christendom to build and the fantastic discoveries of a new world awaiting exploration across the ocean. The wine she consumed appeared to relax her, and the formidable reserve lessened.

"What do you think of this place?" She asked, gesturing around the hall. They sat alone at the massive table, a feast of considerable magnitude bending the ancient boards. "The owner has offered it to me for a goodly price."

"It is…" He searched around in his mind for the word. "Unloved."

Her head titled. "What do you mean?"

Nico felt nervous, as though he had expressed a thought too close to his own heart. "Our home in Grosetto. It is small, and not so fine, but the stones soak up the warmth of the sun. The halls ring with the echoes of laughter and song. This place only whispers of things long past. It has known little happiness. Though of course the vines are very fine." He had noticed them while approaching the chateau, seemingly so much older and richer than the ones adorning the hills around his home.

"Will you return there, Nico de Corella, when your sister rises from childbed?"

He shook his head, and settled back in his chair to better observe her. The light from braces of candles softened her face, enriching it to beauty. Sparks caught on the gold threads in her gown and the heavy necklace she wore, set with blue stones that dripped into the valley between her breasts. Tearing his eyes away from the beguiling vision she presented, he looked into his goblet of wine. He tilted it, examining the ruby liquid, and swirled it until the fruity scent filled his nostrils, drowning out the fragrance of lilies which the Duchess wore. He sipped the wine, finding it smooth and delicious, like the touch of a woman's skin.

"I would make my own way in life," he said. "And I would find a worthy master to serve," he looked up, catching her eyes, and intimate knowledge flowed between them. Nico thought, staring into her face, that he had never known another who understood him so well. "Or a mistress."

The duchess leaned forward and touched his hand. "And what would you desire in return for such fealty?"

"Experience," he said. "And knowledge."

Louise did not remove her hand. The words hung between them. She did not pretend to misunderstand, and a similar longing settled over her features. "Yes," she breathed, moving forward until she balanced on the edge of the chair. "You would seize the world with both hands and drink it dry."

"And savor it."

Their eyes met again, bodies separated by no more than a thought. Nico clenched his hand around the goblet until his fingers turned white, controlling the wild urge to touch her. Louise's lips formed in an enigmatic smile.

The entrance of the Duchess's ladies into the hall stopped the flow of their conversation. Shaking herself, Louise rose, and presented her hand to be kissed.

"In the morning, we will ride together, that we may speak in private."

"My lady," he said, bowing and then watching the gentle sway of her skirts as she exited the hall. He sat and finished the wine, thinking of the way the pulse had jumped in her throat at the touch of his mouth. It was a long time before he could find his rest.

Nico broke his fast in the morning before the Duchess made her appearance. He had slept poorly, mind plagued by images of fornication and death.

The Duchess looked to share his disquiet. Her face was pale, with dark circles beneath her eyes. After she had eaten, the Duchess led him from the hall, absenting herself for a moment to retrieve a long cloak. When she had returned, Nico followed her to where two horses waited. She mounted with the assistance of a groom and then looked back at him, confident and easy in the saddle.

"Can you see to my safety?" She asked, arching an eyebrow. "Or shall I have my guards follow?"

Nico allowed himself a smile. "What small skills I possess are yours to command."

Louise opened her mouth to respond, then shook her head and touched a whip to her horse's side. They guided their mounts through the courtyard, skirting a milling hoard of servants. Nico had no difficulty discerning which of those had ventured to the chateau with the Duchess and who had served at Bagnols for generations. Louise's servants looked on her fondly, and called greetings and well wishes as they trotted past. The others were carved from stone, with no hint of emotion clouding their faces.

Side by side, they exited the gate. She urged her horse into a gallop, finding a winding path that led from the chateau to the nearby hills. Autumn was beginning to paint the leaves with a dazzling brush and Nico inhaled, tasting the bite of the air. Birds flushed from the fields, and in pockets of soft earth he could discern the faint tracks of predators, their steps as light as morning dew.

The Duchess was a formidable rider. She maintained only loose control of her mount, allowing the spirited animal its head. Nico followed her lead, urging his horse onward after the elusive figure that raced ahead, reckless as a bird released from her cage.

When the horses were soaked in sweat, Louise slowed. A stand of trees marked the curving of the path into a rocky promontory that overlooked a lake whose deep blue waters sparkled in the sunshine.

"We will walk from here," Louise said.

Nico slid from his horse and moved to where the duchess waited. He helped her dismount, and the hands he curled around her narrow waist burned. He stood so close that he could inhale the scent she favored, like lilies and gold. On her head the Duchess wore a velvet cap with a long, curving feather. He touched it, sliding a finger down the downy length, stopping when the heat from her cheek pulsed a breath from his skin.

"Stop flirting with me," she snapped, brushing his hand aside. Bright spots of color troubling her face. "Else I shall accept your offer. I have been without the touch of a man for far too long and I doubt you would escape the encounter unscathed." Her accent grew more pronounced as she spoke, layering her Italian with viscous intent.

"I have been bloodied before," he said, not moving away.

Louise breathed through her nose and muttered a coarse word in French under her breath that make Nico laugh.

After a startled moment, the Duchess joined him. Her laugh seemed girlish and surprisingly innocent after their charged conversation, and at odds with her sophisticated mien.

"Nico de Corella," she pronounced, shaking her head ruefully, "You will be a man unlike any I have known. I do not know if I should pity the woman that you will someday take to wife, or envy her." Then she waved her own words aside. "What do you know of your sister?"

They walked, reaching a small outcropping of rocks etched from the hillside. In the distance he could hear the voices of shepherds, leading their flocks to the lake for water, and the warbling cries of the sheep.

Nico unclasped his cloak and spread it on the largest boulder. The Duchess inclined her head and settled herself on his cloak, fanning her flushed cheeks. He remained close to her, stance relaxed. Though he took care not to betray any anxiety, they had been followed.

"What knowledge I already have of my sister places her in danger," he said, toying with the dagger thrust into his belt. "I wish to know nothing that could further endanger her. She is my sister. That is enough."

Louise leaned forward, focusing on him with the intensity of a hawk. "Not the name of the man whose child she will bear?"

"No. Though I know my sister. Undoubtedly he will place her in even greater danger, for you Borgia never do anything by half measure."

Louise laughed until he could see the gleam of tears shining in her eyes. "Your words are truer than you know," she said, continuing to study him. "Are you truly skilled with the sword at your side?"

Nico bowed his head.

"You have the gift of silence, Nico. It will serve you well in the years to come." She complimented him, and Nico saw her eyes shift to a spot over his shoulder.

Nico moved to the side as the man who had come up behind them with a heavy cudgel struck, aiming for his head. Overbalanced, the attacker staggered to one knee. The man wore the Duchess's colors and made no move toward her.

"If you seek to measure my skill, lady, you have chosen an unworthy opponent," Nico chided, not bothering to draw his sword. He waited, contempt showing plainly on his face, as the man lumbered to his feet and swore.

He charged like a bull, withdrawing a knife from his belt. Nico stepped forward and caught the knife on the hilt of his dagger . With a twist of his wrist, Nico sent the knife flying, and then whirled around, trapping the larger man's grasping arms in the folds of his cloak. The attacker crashed to the ground, trussed like a pig for slaughter, Nico's blade an inch from his eye.

"Do you wish his blood, my lady?" Nico asked, breath even and unhurried. The man beneath him struggled and Nico leaned in, pressing the blade to a quivering brown eye. Abruptly, all motion ceased.

"Would you end his life so easily?" Louise asked, then nodded. "Of course you would." Her voice sounded shocked. The fight had not lasted three seconds."Please let him up, Nico. He is the leader of my personal guard, and has served me faithfully for many years."

Nico stood and offered a hand. With a grimace, the man took it. When he was on his feet, Nico saw that he was tall and muscular despite being of mature years.

"You are very strong, sir," Nico complimented him, switching to French. "Though you have injured your ankle. It sounds as you walk."

The soldier nodded, testing his ankle gingerly against the dusty earth. "At Viana. Francois de Grouchy." He bowed and looked at Nico with grudging admiration. "How long have you trained?"

"All my life."

The chevalier shrugged. "Would that I could show my son…" He gestured at Nico's cloak and twirled his fingers, "that." He finished, unable to find the words. "He is close to your age, though not your skill."

"Bring your son to me before I depart,"Nico said, "That he may protect my lady effectively in the future."

Louise watched him accept the man's gratitude. Her eyebrows had drawn together, creating a crease between them. She remained silent as Francois hurried down the steep incline, his ankle creaking with each step.

"That was... unexpected." She said softly. She tapped her fingers against her lips, thinking. "You present a quandary, Nico. Your talents make you an invaluable asset, one that would benefit my house. But I think it would be unwise to have you too near me. You set fire to my mind, filling me with dreams of conquest and a world set at my feet." Finally she nodded, her face touched by regret. "When your sister is delivered, I will send you to Philippe de Bourbon. He is a seasoned warrior and commander and will do well by you."

Decision made, the Duchess rose and began to walk back to their horses. He hesitated as they made to depart, thinking of her servants, all those kept close to her. Each was old enough to have served her parents. The Duchess had a great longing for her family, the father she never knew and the mother who had died too young. It was an ache whose cut he knew well.

"My lady, my mother began her life as a servant in the home of Vannozza dei Cattanei, your grandmother. She knew your father from his youth. Perhaps you would speak to her?"

The Duchess took no care to disguise her excitement. "I would, indeed," she murmured,and then began to chuckle. "Your fatal flaw is laid bare to me, young Nico. For all that you are deadly with a blade and your eyes whisper of the bedchamber, you have a loving and gentle heart."

The Duchess rested for the rest of the day, and took her meal in her chamber. Nico rose before the mists of the morning had dissipated and wandered through the yard, selecting the horses that his party would take for the journey to the chateau de la Motte-Feuilly. A messenger had arrived from his mother, informing him that only days lacked before their journey could commence.

"Monsieur de Corella!" Called a voice.

Nico turned to see Francois de Goichy approaching him, a flaxen haired youth trailing in his wake.

"My son, Milun," the commander said.

Nico greeted him, noticing that the boy's face was decorated by a sneer he did not trouble to hide. "We are to practice together?" He spoke slowly, as though the language did not flow easily from his lips.

"Yes."

Nico bit back a smile. Milun was a head taller than himself, several years older, and very certain of his own superiority. "Best of three?" He asked, fingering his purse. "For gold?"

Milun nodded, eagerness flooding his face. A gambler, Nico decided.

The commander led them to a side yard bordered on two sides by the walls of the chateau. He barked out an order, and within moments two swords with blunt edges were brought. Sensing that something was afoot, soldiers began to gather around, and Nico saw the flash of coins changing hands.

Milun stripped off his tunic and shirt, flexing dramatically as he rolled his shoulders and swung the sword back and forth. There was so little skill in his movements that Nico almost laughed.

Francois handed Nico a sword and spoke in halting Italian. "His strength had made him arrogant. I would have him learn now, before it costs him dear."

A feminine laugh sounded from above, and Nico saw that the Duchess's ladies had gathered at the window. And though he could not see her, he sensed that Louise watched as well. Her stare was a weight between his shoulder blades.

The practice sword was a crude weapon, poorly balanced with a guard that scraped his knuckles. He stood, sword held an inch from the dusty ground, as Milun finished placing a bet.

"Are you afraid to take off your shirt?" He jeered, advancing back to where Nico waited. "No muscles?" Milun flexed, displaying his splendid musculature. The women above gasped and tittered.

"He is only a child," one of them said. "Milun will kill him."

"A moment," Nico held up his finger, and returned to where Francois waited. He handed his purse over and murmured. "Place a wager on my behalf."

"How much?"

"All of it." Francois entered the crowd. Nico removed his cloak and tunic, and unlaced his shirt. The jeers of the crowd settled as Nico strode back to the center of the practice area. Though slender, every inch of his body was honed to a razor edge. No trace of fat obscured the long muscles on his torso, and his stomach was corded.

"You are so pretty," Milun said, eyes roving insolently. " Maybe I will teach you another lesson after we are done."

Nico winked and blew a kiss. "I taught your woman the same lesson last night."

The crowd erupted in hoots and rage leeched the color from Milun's face. He grasped the sword in both hands and lifted it overhead, preparing to cleave Nico in two. The move was flashy, suitable only for dispatching a finished opponent, and Nico had to suppress a sigh. This boy was a fool.

Nico stepped forward and landed a viscous blow to the Milun's throat with the hand curled around the pommel of the sword. Milun dropped his weapon and grasped his neck with both hands, trying to draw in a breath. Nico caught the boy's foot with his own, and pushed him to the ground. He laid the blade against Milun's throat.

"One."

Milun jumped to his feet, face contorted with rage. Before he had time to raise his sword completely for an attack, Nico had caught his sword and sent it flying. He advanced, touching his blade to the skin between Milun's eyes.

"Two."

Milun turned purple . His breathe wheezed like an old man and his hands trembled. The youth knelt and picked up the practice sword, its edge now layered in dust. "A moment," he said when he had regained his feet, and turned. While his shoulder obscured the movement, he flexed his wrist and whipped the sword about, aiming for Nico's middle with all the force in his body.

Had the blow landed, Nico's ribs would have shattered. The callous unconcern enraged Nico, who had carefully avoided injuring his opponent, and he lost the careful grip on his temper. He landed a dozen blows with the flat against Milun's head and neck, raising painful red welts that would bruise within hours.

"Three," he said when Milun had dropped his weapon and stood cringing, hands crossed in front of his face, trying to ward off the stinging attack. Nico whipped about, and brought the flat of the sword crashing against Milun's temple, knocking him unconscious.

Stunned silence greeted the defeat. Then, after a charged moment, Nico heard a light, girlish laugh. The Duchess. Milun was dragged away, his face trailing in the dust of the yard.

"Another?" Nico called, picking up the second sword, and drawing a figure with each blade.

No one stepped forward. From above, the Duchess, now framed by the stone casement of the window, called "Damien."

The crowd rustled, and whispers began again. Nico knew immediately that the man who emerged from the crowd was skilled. He moved easily, a restrained, powerful glide, and his dark eyes studied Nico intensely. Nico judged him to be a dozen years his senior, in the prime of his power and skill. No smile curved the lips outlined by a short, dark beard. It was a handsome face, though unremarkable. One that would disappear.

Nico saluted him respectfully and offered a sword.

"I would use my own weapon," Damien said, pulling it from the scabbard at his waist. "To blood?"

The weapon further elevated Nico's estimation of opponent's skill. It's hilt lacked ostentation and the blade formed a gentle curve, lines stunning in their simplicity and deadly purpose. It was a masterpiece of the blade-smith's art, the kind of weapon Nico would have carried.

"To submission."

Nico signaled to Francois, who had emerged from the crowd holding Nico's sword and a now bulging purse. Displaying little concern for his unconscious son, Francois bent forward and whispered in Nico's ear. "He is a master, from the king's own guard."

Nico did not reply. He unsheathed his sword and waited, excitement pounding an beat in his throat. He had never faced another with his level of training. His father had been old, capable only of instructing. The men he had fought against before had done nothing to test his skill.

The attack came without warning, lacking the tells that normally signaled sudden movement. Nico brought his sword up to block, and the force of the blades colliding sent a shiver of noise through the practice area. The blade stopped a hand's breath from his face, and Damien grinned, clearly anticipating a quick victory, only to wince when Nico deflected, nearly knocking his sword to the ground.

Then there was no time to think. Nico's sword moved instinctually, blocking thrusts that were too quick to see. Damien moved with the grace of a dancer, probing for weaknesses and finding none. Their swords moved faster and faster, becoming a blur of silver. His speed was matched against Damien's strength. Time slowed to a crawl. The sound of swords meeting and harsh breathing echoed against the stone walls of the chateau as they traversed the yard.

Nico leaned back from a thrust and it painted a line of fire along his ribs. There was a hiss from the assembled crowd, then all other distractions melted away under the onslaught of quicksilver parries and slashes. There was no fear in Nico, only the exhilaration of finding an opponent capable of testing his skill. They danced, a liquid glide of advance and thrust, their bond more intimate than friendship or fornication.

They halted, Nico's sword an inch from his opponent's throat. Damien's blade touched the flesh beneath Nico's heart. Sweat poured off them in streaming rivulets despite the chill, and the crowd that surrounded them was utterly silent.

Nico began to laugh and pulled his sword back. Damien grinned, his teeth blazing against his dark beard, and dropped his blade. They came together in a bone crushing hug, pounding one another on the back and laughing.

"I had you," Damien said, ruffling Nico's damp red hair.

"At least twice," Nico conceded, then poked Damien in the belly, where half a dozen tiny red splotches decorated his tunic. "But I had you as well."

Damien threw his arm over Nico's shoulder. "By God, I have never had such a fight. Come with me. We will bathe and drink wine and you will tell me about your master."

Gradually Nico became aware that the crowd was still watching with shocked white faces. "Go," the master barked, and they dispersed within seconds. Glancing upwards, Nico saw that Louise alone remained, and she watched Nico with an expression that had little to do with fear, though her lip had been bitten bloody.

"By your leave, lady," he asked, and Louise nodded.

Damien watched the exchange between Nico and the Duchess with raised eyebrows. "That is a fight you will not win."

"I just did."

Damien and Nico dined together, then went to the bath chamber. A huge wooden tub was filled by servants who carried in bucket after bucket of heated water while Nico and Damien drank wine and swapped stories of training and weapons, blades and conflicts. Nico refused outright to tell the king's servant who had trained him, and after several attempts, Damien ceased asking.

When the servants had departed, Nico stripped off the remainder of his clothes. Damien watched him, an inscrutable expression on his handsome face.

"How old are you, truly?" He asked. When Nico did not answer, Damien shook his head and laughed. "15? 14? 13?"

Something in Nico's expression must have given him away, for Damien began to laugh. "Does the Duchess know?"

"No," Nico answered, then got into the tub. The warm water caressed his body, and he could not suppress a groan as he slid in up to his chin. The master's sword had left a hundred stinging wounds in its wake. But, Nico thought, viewing Damien's body as he joined Nico in the tub, his sword had left it's share as well.

"I will keep your secret, Nico, if you will promise me something."

Their newfound camaraderie had not lessened Nico's suspicious nature, and he merely watched Damien without saying a word.

Nico's reticence pleased the king's servant. "By Christ, I would give much to take you into my service! I would have you come to me, should something arise that you can not win with the force of your blade. Come to me, and I will assist you."

"For a price."

Damien raised his eyebrows and leaned out of the tub, retrieving his goblet of wine. "But of course. There is always a price."

They parted amiably, Damien riding from the chateau later that day. Nico spent the afternoon riding, avoiding the fearful, suspicious eyes of the servants, who made gestures against the evil eye when he passed. He would meet his mother the next day in Lyon, and he was impatient for the journey to begin.

Louise came to him that night, as he known that she would. There was the faintest trace of lily fragrance, and then cold white fingers drawing the curtains of his bed aside.

Nico grasped her hand and pulled, rolling until the struggling body was trapped beneath his own. The light of the candle he had left burning on a table illuminated her face, seeming so much younger without the rich finery, and her eyes were bright with passion.

"Have you come to instruct me further?" he asked.

"Yes."

Nico winced as his codpiece made contact with the smooth, hardened leather of the saddle. The Duchess, true to her word, had spent the night instructing him. In the aftermath, he was sore, bloody in places, and more at peace in his thoughts than he had been since his father had died. The love of a woman could do that, he realized. They could be a light in the darkness.

"How did you find the Duchess, my son?" His mother asked. After she had recovered, Andre had arranged for her to travel on a comfortable barge up the River. Her eyes, surveying the road ahead of them, were bright with anticipation. Even a dislike of riding could not spoil her sunny mood.

"She is a woman of many talents and rare intellect," he hedged, hoping the hot sun would explain the blush on his face.

His mother drew her horse up and stared at him. When the soldiers who traveled with them would have halted as well, she waved them on.

"Nico," she scolded. "The duchess?"

"Yes, mother?" He replied, taking care that his expression was full of confused innocence.

"Do not think I am as easily fooled as some, Nico de Corella. there are the marks of teeth upon your neck and your lips are swollen. We he still alive, Cesare Borgia would have…"

Nico interrupted her. "What would Il Valentino have done, Mother, you who knew him so well?"

Elizabetta's mouth closed and after a moment's silence, she urged her horse on. Nico rode silently next to her, occupied by his own thoughts, until a small snort refocused his attention on the slim figure beside him.

"Cesare Borgia would have laughed," Betta said, and Nico knew the matter to be closed.


	6. Chapter 6

Micheletto had instilled a distrust of strangers in Nico from an early age, and he needed no words from his mother to bind an unwary tongue. During the course of the journey they conversed only with one another, and in such low tones that they were certain not to be overheard.

As they traveled through barren highlands and lush pastures, Nico confided to her the Duchess's intention to offer him in service to Philippe de Bourbon after Lucia had given birth, a plan that gained his mother's approval.

"Your father and I could exist only in the shadows, my love. Your destiny is to walk in both the light and the dark. If this man seems worthy of your fealty, offer it to him, but do not do so blindly. A weapon is only as deadly as the man who wields it and you, my son, are a formidable weapon. I would not have you serve an unworthy master. Cesare Borgia, for all his faults, was a worthy man. Seek out one such as he was."

The name sent a thrill of sensation racing down Nico's spine. Cesare Borgia. The threads of his own family and that of the Borgia were inextricably joined, like a silken web tossed in the breeze until it became a single cord. Lucia and the Duchess's father. The lover of his mother. The man whose loss his father never ceased to mourn.

"How do I know who to serve?"

"That is for each man, or woman, to decide. I gave my loyalty to the Borgia family, whom I still serve, though it is from bonds of love, not fealty."

As they neared the end of the journey, they rested for the night in the shade of a mountain pass. The stars shown brightly overhead, their brilliance eclipsed only by the moon. A tiny fire warmed feet grown weary with travel.

A scream that rolled across the hills brought Nico out of a light slumber that had allowed him to rest during the hours of the night while still maintaining watch. Next to him, his mother jerked awake. In the light of the fire, the blade she had clutched in her hand gleamed, reflecting the light of the newly risen moon.

She shook herself, and focused on locating the unearthly sound. Nico pointed to the peak that speared into the sky. Halfway up the incline, he saw a movement

The noise came again.

"A goat?" He guessed, looking to his mother for confirmation.

She nodded, and stood up. "It sounds as though it is injured. Wolves will come, if it is not silenced soon. I will..."

Nico caught his mother's hand as she moved toward the noise. "I will go. Keep watch that you may rouse the soldiers, if there is need." He pointed to the men who accompanied them. The sound of their deep, even breathing was undisturbed despite the frightful noise. The sentry, who rested with his back to a boulder, slumbered in a similar fashion, chin resting on his chest.

She nodded her approval. After taking a smoldering torch that had been left by the fire and kindling it once more to flames, Nico heading toward the source of the noise. He picked his way carefully, knowing that a carelessly placed footfall could signal the end of his journey, if not his life. The moon illuminated his path, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Tufts of wiry grass brushed his ankles.

Another plaintive howl led him to the source of the noise. Resting on it's side, the nanny goat's hugely distended belly swelled and moved as the animal tossed from side to side, alternating between groans of pain and grunts of exhausted labor. Nico jammed the torch into the ground and knelt by it's back legs. The smell of blood was ripe and pungent in the air.

Nico bit back a groan at the sight of the limp head and neck protruding from the goat's hindquarters. The kid that the dame strained to birth had already died, it's life ended before a single breath.

"Shhh,shhh, " he crooned, gently soothing with a caress while his mind raced. He had assisted Piero with difficult births, and he knew that the animal would soon join it's unfortunate offspring if he did not do something to ease her suffering.

A gust of wind that blew down from the mountains abruptly snuffed out his torch, leaving Nico in darkness. The goat lifted her head from the ground, where her exertions had carved a hollow in the soil, and looked at him. Though the light from the moon was faint, it was enough to see liquid, terrified eyes.

Nico blocked everything from his mind but the task at hand. He stripped off his doublet and shirt and touched the kid. A tongue protruded from it's lips, already cold despite the pulsing heat of a mother's body. An image flooded his mind: Piero with his arm buried inside a sheep, face contorting with effort as he guided the animal from its mother's womb.

"Don't pull, for the love of Christ, unless there is no other choice. If you can shift the hooves forward..." The tiny lamb emerged from it's mother with a splat and loosed a warbling cry. Within moments, the lamb had risen from the ground and was tended to by it's mother.

With one hand, Nico lifted the dead kid's head. With the other, he gently pressed inside, feeling his way along the still body while his hand was squeezed by muscular walls.

The goat screamed at the intrusion and tried to rise, body frantic with pain.

"Hush," he whispered, and pressed farther in, reaching , searching for hooves. What he found was an unyielding wall of bone that signaled the end of his hopes to deliver the dead kid easily.

He eased his arm out of the womb. A heaving shook the goat's body, and she tried to push, but it was a pitiful effort. Her strength had been taxed by straining for hours as the baby had died inside of her.

Nico cursed and grabbed the limp neck, pulling in time with the grunts. The screams of the animal increased in intensity, drowning out all sound. When the goat collapsed back he relaxed his hold and tried to see if the kid had slid forward, only to find that it was still wedged tightly inside.

"I'm sorry," Nico whispered, waiting for the next pulsing movement. He stroked his hand down the animal's flanks, finding the texture of the hair coarse and yet smooth. The black and white head lifted from the ground and looked back at him. Grief. He could see it in her eyes, pain and grief that turned her silvery-lit eyes human in the dim light. He would not let her suffer anymore. If he could not free the kid, he would end her life.

Nico braced himself against the ground, and pulled with all of his strength. The nanny screamed, an unearthly sound that echoed across the hills. Pain exploded in Nico's side as he labored, finally pulling the kid free even as a hoof from the spamming mother caught him in the side.

Once the shoulders had been freed, the kid slipped from its mother easily, landing in a heap on the stony ground. Nico straightened and picked up the body, cradling it against his naked chest. Though he knew there was no hope, he shook the body and breathed into its nose, hoping to find some scrap of life remaining.

Nico buried his face in the wet fur, finally realizing that his struggles were in vain. Warmth splashed against his chest. Nico tasted the tears on his lips as they seeped and then flooded from his eyes.

Sorrow howled from him, becoming more than mere regret for the wretched waste of life. He cried for his father, dead too soon and for his mother, who would never laugh with the joy he remembered from his youth. He cried for his sister, about to give birth in an alien land, and for the men that he had killed, the soldiers, the artist, and his cousin.

He cried, holding the tiny, cold body in his arms, the fluid and blood from it's birth staining his skin. He could not remember crying life this in his life. The whole of his body shook with the force of his sobs.

A warm hand touched his shoulder and Nico flinched back. "Oh, my son," his mother whispered.

She took the kid and he collapsed in her arms, crying in a way that he only dimly remembered from his youth, when her touch could mend the hurts of the entire world. She folded gracefully to the ground and he followed her, salting the skin of her neck with a thousand tears as she murmured soothing endearments.

When his grief had burned itself out, his mother turned and allowed him a moment to wipe the moisture from his face. Elizabetta placed the kid on the ground as Nico returned to the nanny, who was struggling to rise. With some coaxing, she rose, and Nico slipped a rope around her neck.

"What do I do?" He asked, gesturing to the weak and trembling dame. "Leave her?"

Elizabetta shook her head. "I am far past making such decisions for you, my son."

Nico turned, surveying the distant hills that leapt with a thousand shadows in the dim light. Below them, along a path he could faintly see etched into the side of the hill, a curl of smoke sluggishly emerged from a tiny stone hovel.

"The screams and the stench of death will bring predators. I will return her there."

She nodded and kissed his cheek, brushing at his tears with a gentle caress. They parted; her to return to the fire and he down the hill, dragging the exhausted goat behind him while cradling the dead in his arms.

The sky had lost a breath of its darkness as he neared the stone dwelling that had been built into the base of the mountain. A dog howled as he approached, and the goat bleated, straining against its rope halter.

"Show yourself!" Growled a voice from the deepest shadows. Exhaustion clouded Nico's senses, and he could not tell the source of the voice.

"I am here," Nico said, voice sounding small and weak even to his own ears. He pulled on the lead, edging the goat forward. In his hands, wrapped in his cloak, he still held the tiny body. "I could not..." His voice trailed off, and he swayed.

There was the sound of footsteps, and strong arms caught Nico as gray descended on his vision. "Eh, eh!" A jug was pressed to his lips, and Nico spluttered as a fiery substance burned down his throat.

"Another," the voice demanded, and Nico took another sip. It cleared his mind, and his vision cleared. Standing before him was a mountain of a man, the largest he had ever seen, with a gray beard and long hair mingling as it flowed over a brown robe.

Nico nodded his thanks and stood, pushing himself from the ground. Embarrassment brought a festering surge of red to his face that he hoped was disguised by the weak light leaking from the hut.

"My thanks," he said, then picked up his cloak, the black wool stained with the russet of dried blood. Unwrapping it, he displayed the dead kid. "I could not save it."

"And I could not find them, though I searched long. God must have guided your footsteps, that you could bring them back to me." Hands as cracked and rough as boulders took Nico's burden and caressed it gently. Under the trembling hands it seemed to have life, with hooves dancing in the wind. Tears sparkled in his eyes, leaking into the edges of the unkempt beard. "Little sparrow, we have marked your passing." The old man took the rope from Nico's hand and motioned him to follow.

The small enclosure that housed the herd was made from sticks pounded into stony ground and woven together, creating a light, flexible wattle fencing that shook in the wind. AS they neared it, the nanny's head rose, and she let out a plaintive noise that soon had a dozen of her kind crowding around. The old man closed the gate and fixed it with a stoat rope, then turned to face Nico.

"It was kindness that you did, helping an old man that all have forgotten. Come, share my fire for a time."

"I should return," Nico protested, though his voice was faint with weariness.

The old man took Nico's elbow. "No," he said. "You will come with me. Your friends will not leave you, and the wolves cry as they come down the mountains. I will not send you from my home after you have shown me such kindness. Come."

The single room of the hut was dominated by an enormous hearth. A pot rested in the embers of the blazing fire. Nico sat on the pressed earth floor and stretched his hands out, warming them in the blaze.

"More wine?" The old man asked.

Nico nodded, and the old man passed him a battered metal cup. Nico turned it in his hands and bit back a curse when a leering, grotesque face peered back at him from the corroded metal.

"Bacchus," the old man said, pointing at the cup. "One of the old gods." He filled another cup, and quaffed an enormous swallow. "It is a night when the old ways seem to walk once more." He closed his eyes, and a sudden rush of sparks threw light through the room, fully illuminating the olds man's face. What Nico had taken for a trick of the light was a burn that covered half of a visage already scarred with age. By the regularity of the burn, Nico knew his host had been tortured with flame.

They drank in silence for a time, allowing the heat of the fire and the wine to drive out the last of the chill from the night, until Nico remembered the dictates of courtesy, and he introduced himself.

His host returned the honor. "You may call me Old Man. I have forgotten my other name, if I ever had one besides that which my animals call me." The brown robe that he wore was stiff, the color Nico recalled from the earth outside. In it, the old man seemed formed from the mountains.

"Are you a priest?" He asked.

"I have been many things, in my day. A priest, a poet, a leader of men. But that was long ago. Days pass here with the speed of a hawk in flight, and I no longer mark their passing."

Nico looked around, seeing the simple food upon a rough table, the bottle of wine, and the pot bubbling as it hung over the fire. "I envy you the simplicity of your life."

The old man laughed until wine trickled from his mouth like blood, staining his beard. "That is the thought of a child, Nico, and you are no child, for all that your years are few."

With a nod, Nico acknowledged the truth of the old mans words.

"Can you spin me a tale, Old Man, that I may sleep this night?"

Eyes that shown with understanding regarded Nico, and in a soft, melodious voice like the finest drink he began to weave tales, wiling away the hours of the night. With the easy, practiced manner of a bard, stories fell from his lips, tales of sacrifice and bravery that Nico dimly remembered from his studies. He spoke of Hector, lost before the gates of a great city, and Hercules, who defeated all enemies save the one that resided in his own breast. He spoke of the love of women that lead men to war, and the love of brothers that sustained them. Rivers as wide as the ocean sprang forth in the warm, close air of the cabin, and lands journeyed to in voyages that tested the hearts of men.

Nico blinked, the smoke from the fire and the wine placing iron weights on his eyelids. He blinked again, and a heavy blanket descended upon his prone form, encasing him in warmth and wool.

"Sleep well, young wanderer," came a gruff voice, and in a haze it sounded from each corner of the hut, enfolding him with tones that seemed both young and old, rough and impossibly wise.

When Nico awoke in the morning his host had already departed, along with the flock. Deciding that he must have taken them to graze in the valley, Nico left a small pile of coins beneath a cup to pay for his lodging and departed, rejoining his party on the road.

His mother welcomed him with a smile, and seemed pleased that his eyes had lost their grief during the course of the night. The men who had slept through to the morning were inclined to grumble over the delay until Nico silenced them with a word.

The remainder of the journey proved uneventful, and they neared the rolling green pastures of the Duchess's chateau as the chill wind of autumn blew colorful leaves in a brilliant profusion from the trees, gold and russet and flaming orange. They sent the soldiers on ahead, and rode together to the large stone house positioned just outside the gates.

A lumbering figure raced to meet them, and his mother uttered a happy noise that turned into a cry as his sister sank to the ground in a faint. He pulled on the reins and slid from the saddle, knowing his feet were swifter than the spent horse.

The dark cloth of her gown formed a puddle of darkness against the stone of the courtyard. His mother's shout brought the servants forth, and they surged, trying to separate him from the prone figure of his sister.

"Who are you?"

"What business have you with this lady?"

"Depart at once!"

When a black robed guard store forward, obviously intending to force them from the estate, Nico drew his swords and waited, light on his feet, for the attack. His glance at the assembled servants showed no force that could remove him from his sister's side. The confidence in his easy stance and flat eyes stayed their approach, and they formed a confused huddle near the open door as Lucia regained her wits. The joyful reunion of mother and daughter ended the tense silence. They were welcome into the house with many words of apology, but the assembled guards still viewed him with a suspicion that Nico did nothing to abate.

As spring approached, his sister grew impossibly large, until she could move from her bed only with difficulty. The arrival of the Duchess at the Chateau, complete with her household and guard, brought an infusion of life to the quiet place. Lucia had greatly changed in the months she had spent in France, and it was plain that she mourned the loss of he who made placed a child in her belly. Only in conversations with their mother and the Duchess did she regain a measure of her former vitality.

The duchess awaited the birth of Lucia's child with eagerness, and showered her sister with expensive gifts she had brought from court. Louise also relished the opportunity to speak with Elizabetta de Corella about her life with the Borgia family. They a formed an unholy triumvirate, his mother, sister, and she who had been his lover.

The Duchess emerged from the first of these discussions with flaming patches of rage decorating her cheeks. She cornered him in the kitchen garden and under the guise of securing his escort back to the chateau, she abused him with the harshest words at her disposal.

"A child! And one that I took my my bed! You have made me a deplorable figure, fit only to sulk about alleyways like those men who prey on..." She spluttered with indignation, reverting to her native tongue and cursing so colorfully that his limited knowledge of the language could not follow the words.

He allowed her to rage on, maintaining deeply mournful expression throughout the short ride and replying only with monosyllables.

"What am I to do with you?" She asked, desperation gleaming in her beautiful golden eyes.

Later, as he relaced his doublet and prepared to leave her chambers, Louise Borgia lifted her tousled head from the bed and rested it on a cupped palm.

"You sit in my veins like poison, Nico," she said, drawing a pattern on the white linen of the bedclothes with a finger. "Though I know it to be wrong, my body yearns for the taste."

Lucia's time came when the tender blooms of spring flowers emerged from fields only recently covered in snow. The midwife was sent for, and each moment became measured by the sounds of his sister's agony.

Nico faced Lucia's confinement with fear as a silent, though constant, companion to his thoughts. For weeks he had overheard whispered conversations about the perils of birth. The memory of what he had witnessed on the mountain haunted him, images of death and gold eyes that seemed, in his memory, to grown ever more similar to his sister's brilliant eyes.

A day and a night passed. The sound of Lucia's screams permeated the stone walls of the house. When he could endure it no longer, he fled, seeking refuge in the forest and down the road while the mists of early morning still clung to the hills. The imagined screams were more terrible than the reality, filled with fear and desperation.

Never, he promised himself, looking back down the road to the house where his sister seemed destined to die. Never would he allow a woman he loved to suffer so. No life was worth such pain.

When his mind felt raw from the agony, he returned to the house as the sun reached its zenith. Though he expected to find the door closed and all in mourning, laughter rang from the halls, filling it to the rafters. Elizabetta, gaunt and hollow eyed as though she had seen death,welcomed him in with a glad cry.

"Come, come!" She said, catching him by the hand and pulling him into the master's chamber, where his sister sat amidst a cloud of snowy white linen, her pale face tired but triumphant. In the corner, he could see the form of the Duchess, asleep on a straw pallet like a kitchen maid.

A swaddled bundle was taken from Lucia's arms and placed in his own. Nico was astonished by its lightness, and the faint, pleasant smell that hung about the newborn in a cloud, reminding him of berries heavy on the vine. A pudgy hand reached out and grasped his fingers. The bluest eyes Nico had ever seen looked out from the cover of an embroidered blanket, innocent trust and wonder shining in the midnight depths.

He almost pulled back from the grip of the babe's fingers, convinced that he would sully her. But his own skin felt cleaner for the touch, like the blood and death that had marred it were lessened.

Nico loved her from that first moment. It was not the same love that he felt for his mother, or the tender admiration he held for his sister, so beautiful and strong. Rather it was the unutterable tenderness of having found something precious that was once believed lost. Fealty and love were opposing sides of the same coin, and he offered it to her, knowing that he would stand before her as guard and protector for the remainder of his life.

When the nightmares came he crept, wraith-like, and stood watch over the baby, and rocked Charlotte in the extraordinary cradle gifted by the duchess until his mind was at peace.

"Nico," Lucia chided, watching Charlotte giggle with delight as Nico lifted her above his head until the bright red hair caught the rays of summer sun from the window, turning them to flame. "You will drop her."

Nico paused, looking at the bright starlight of the laughing face. "I would die before I dropped you, little one."

Charlotte nestled into his chest, and he resumed his story.

"Your Grandfather was Micheletto, little one, and he was skilled with a blade…"


	7. Chapter 7

A knock sounded on the door of Nico's chamber. Through the thick planks, he could hear whimpering cries, and knew that his sister had sought him out, and Charlotte was with her. The baby had been ill tempered of late, and accustomed to his undivided attention while Lucia rested during the afternoons, when the heat formed golden shimmers on the fields and even the flies seemed to weary to stir.

For the last hours, he had listened to the baby wail and hardened his heart, knowing that she must accustom herself to his absence no matter how it pained him.

"Enter," he said, not lifting eyes from the task that had occupied his attention for most of the day.

There was a rush of fresh summer air as Lucia paused in the doorway.

"Her tooth pains her, and only you seem able to soothe her in this mood..."

Her voice faltered as she took in the garments spread across his bed, the traveling cloak and boots, the weapons waiting in formation for his care. A leather purse filled with such coins as he possessed waited on the table next to him alongside a missive bearing the Duchess's seal.

She sighed, and sat on the bed. Though not as luxurious as her own chamber or the one he visited in the chateau, it was a place of comfort, with a goose feather tick and blankets. During the winter, fires had been laid in every hearth to banish the chill, while the thick walls also provided a measure of relief from the heat. Sunshine poured in from the small window, setting his hair aflame. He could smell the faint perfume of the herbs that his mother had planted, basil and rosemary and thyme.

"You do not have to leave, brother," she said. Settled in her lap, the baby reached out, gurgling with joy, a single tooth visible between swollen pink gums.

"I know," he said. Using long strokes, he rubbed the oil into the sword that left a burnished sheen on the metal. Shame roughened his voice. "There was rust on the blade."

She understood at once, having been subjected to the same fires that had forged him. "Nico, it is no crime that you have placed your weapons to the side for a time..."

"A time? More than a fortnight has passed since I last touched the sword, and perhaps another would have as well, had I not heard the sound of men on the march as they travel to battle. I should have done likewise many months past."

Her hand settled atop his, stopping his movements. When he turned, the eyes that had cast a golden light on his childhood were dimmed, and seemed immeasurably older. The last years had aged her far beyond the calendar span of her years. "What harm would it bring for you to remain here with us, Nico? Happiness is no paltry thing. You could be as other boys your age are, without these terrible burdens that weigh on your heart. You could enter a trade, or perhaps the household of my sister. She would welcome you, I am sure."

The simplicity, the beauty, of his sister's suggestion wrapped around his thoughts, as beguiling as the one who tempted Eve. To put aside his blades, and the darkness that traveled with them. To savor the next year's unadorned pleasures, and watch Lotte grow. In time he would laugh again, and bring joy to a mother's heart which had grown heavy with so many losses. Only a small part of the greater world would be his to know and experience, someday to be shared with a wife that he would cherish, and children who would never know his deadly past. Perhaps even God would smile upon him in time.

"And when Henry Tudor learns of your continued existence?" he asked, very gently taking his fingers from her grasp. Charlotte was reaching for him, dimples and the flash of her scarlet hair like blood in the sunshine. Ignoring her entreaties made his heart ache. "When the King of this land learns the weapon he seeks against the English resides within his own borders?"

Stillness fell over his sister, and Charlotte whimpered in protest as Lucia clutched her against her chest.

"I did not think you knew..." She began.

"Too many know!" He burst out, placing the sword on the bed between them so that he could stride through the room. "I ran from the knowledge of Lotte's father, and still it found me. Servants could have heard your words to Mother, as I did. The soldiers who travel with the Duchess, the attendants who went with you to the Field. They all could know! Your safety is founded on a secret shared by dozens! Someday it will be found out, Lucia Borgia, daughter of Cesare and Lucrezia Borgia. And then...What is the fate of a child against the needs of kings?"

Shadowed by the black of her widow's veil, Lucia's face was bloodless with shock. "What must I do?" She gathered her daughter closer despite the infant's protests. Her body tensed, as though preparing to run.

Her trust calmed his racing thoughts, and the path that they must follow unfolded with perfect clarity in his mind. "We must wait for Lotte to grow. A babe traveling through these lands..." He could not give voice to the words, but he met his sister's eyes. The knowledge passed between them, of tiny broken bodies wrapped in rags, of plague and pox and fever.

"I have already spoken with our Mother. She will ensure that should the need arise, you will disappear like smoke on the wind. To Spain, perhaps, or back to Grosetto for a time. For now, you will be safe enough under the Duchess's protection. And I..."

Kneeling, Nico put his hand on Charlotte's chest. She was glad in a fine linen gown, a gift from the Duchess, who delighted in nothing so much as heaping rich gifts upon her remaining family. Beneath it, he could feel the rapid beat of her tiny heart, like a bird in flight.

Charlotte clenched his fingers in her fists and brought them to her mouth, where she bit down with surprising strength. Despite the pain tearing at his insides, Nico smiled. In all the world there was nothing so precious to him as the babe; that he would kill for her was without question, for her first smile had chained his destiny to her more tightly than any oaths he could offer. That he would sacrifice his own happiness for her sake, he also now knew.

"I will become strong enough that no one shall ever harm those I love."

Lucia's finger touched his shoulder. Tears were sparkling in her eyes; she smiled as they painted diamond paths on her cheeks. The sunlight pouring through the windows as the afternoon bloomed to a close, turning her hair to mellow gold, and emphasizing the faint lines that bracketed her mouth, marks of sadness and loss and age.

"Your voice is that of a man now, and to hear it is to have Papa with me once more. I know that you will protect my daughter, Nico, as your mother and father once protected mine. If you swear to me that you will always hold her above all others, then I will have no fear of what the next years will hold."

"I swear it. I will make a place where Lotte can be safe."

Only a small walled city and a thousand men stood to hold back the might of an advancing army, explained the Duchess when Nico had visited her and reaffirmed his decision to leave and enter martial service. As he prepared for departure, Louise took quill and sketched an outline of her country, it's shape like a fist pressed between the divorced parts of the Emperor Charles's domain.

"My husband journeys to the aid of the king as he assembles the armies near Paris, but already the Emperor has sent his forces from the east. They will not arrive in time." She drew a long line through the country, skirting the hills and plains and dense woods. "If the army can enter into the heart of France, they will march unopposed to Paris, and then..." Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. "Philippe has gone with Le Bon Chevalier de Bayard to lead a force to Mézières, which is a town of no great importance, save that it is on the only road to Paris where an army of 40,000 can travel. They will try to halt their advance there, though I fear it will be of no avail."

Louise looked away, trying to hide the shine of fear that had risen to her eyes. When she turned to face him again, her voice was steady. "Do what you can to aid them, Nico, and then return here. If the fight is certain to be lost, you are not to linger, for you have been charged with the safety of my sister and her daughter in the years to come. Do you understand?"

Nico nodded, knowing the risk to Lotte and Lucia should the coming battle claim his life. "My lady." He bowed, then began pulling on his doublet and boots. In the courtyard, a company of the Duchess's guard waited with the horses and the provisions that would see them through the journey. They were doubtless aware of what had delayed his departure, though none were foolish enough to speak of it.

"And, Nico, for your courtesy..." The duchess hesitated, and began to pull at a loose thread hanging from the voluminous sleeve of her gown.

Nico suppressed a smile. "I am no teller of tales, lady." Then, still seeing the sadness that clung to her, he adopted a teasing tone. "Although if it concerns you, perhaps it would be best if you accompanied me to the battle. A Corella fighting under the Borgia banner once more would be a sight to behold."

Though she laughed, there was hunger In her face for the the life that would have been hers save for the chance of her birth. "That large jawed simpleton Charles would flee before the Borgia Bull, and I would not stop until all of Italy was united under it." Louise took one of the knives from a belt he had yet to don and held it out as though preparing for a strike. She appeared very young amidst the remains of the bed where they had dallied, her hair a tousled mane of large curls and her eyes alight with fire. "Would you follow me into battle, Nico, though I am but a weak woman?"

"I would follow you to the very ends of the earth, Louise, though it might cost me my life."

The Duchess smiled at the familiarity she would only allow in this chamber, where the fires of their blood drew sparks from the other. She did not love him, nor he her, and yet they were so alike in their very natures that words were a superfluous adornment to the flow of communication.

He knelt before her and touched the Duchess's cheek. "If in some way I can repay you for the favors you have shown to my family, you have but to ask and it will be done."

A pensive expression claimed hold of her features as she leaned forward to kiss him in farewell. "Perhaps."

A strong wind from the east greeted their arrival at the city of Mézières after many weeks of travel, and it carried the reek of smoke from a thousand distant fires. From the tops of the trees, ravens called out the promise of battle with raucous voices. They could sense the coming storm, and Nico steeled himself to suppress a shiver as they watched him approach the gates of the deserted city.

Nothing that he could see of the town or its few remaining citizens gave him any cause to hope that the Duchess had been mistaken about the outcome of the battle. Mézières seemed a town empty of all but desperation, its people having fled. Nico understood the fear that impelled their fight. Against the army which had sacked and burned Picardy, a far larger and stronger city, the paltry force of a thousand defenders could last no more than days.

The town was largely silent; there was no laughter in the hollow city square, no goods for sale in the market, no animal noises beyond the horses and what was needed to feed the army. Outside the walls, crops were left unattended. Even the very nature of the city itself seemed to ensure its weakness before the advancing army; buildings were tucked flush beneath the walls, and the gleaming gold of the thatched roofs awaited only a spark for conflagration.

Nico thought that the faint twitching of Philippe de Bourbon's smallest finger, heavy with a gold signet ring, was like the movement of a predatory cat, poised for the kill.

It was late in the day, De Bourbon having been occupied with the placement of cannon along the wall for the last hours. As he waited, Nico watched the line of smoke from beyond the Meuse River creep closer, the progress of the army slow, but as inexorable as the tide.

The small movement drew Nico's eye again; it was late in the day, and the dust from the roads still clung to his cloak. Exhaustion from the last weeks pulled at his thoughts, slowing them into a murky haze. Although he tried to banish the insistent pangs from his thoughts, he was hungry, and it put him in an ill humor.

The eyes that peered at him for an instant before returning to the stacks of parchment scattered around the table were also arresting; they were a strange golden color, framed by a fan of dark lashes that rendered the soldier's face almost beautiful, and a stark contrast to the defined musculature he could sense beneath the elaborate garments.

The missive from the Duchess fell from Philippe de Bourbon's fingers and was carelessly shoved to the side.

"What use would a beardless boy be to me?"

Shock rooted Nico in place; that his services would be rejected out of hand had never crossed his mind.

Exhaustion and hunger turned his tongue thick and useless. "My sword..."

Philippe interrupted him with a negligent wave. "A child with a sword. The fortunes of my country are saved. No doubt the Emperor will send terms of surrender as soon as he receives word." His tone was mocking. "Go home, boy, and tell my lady that I have no use for children."

Boy. Child. The indignity of it made rage bloom beneath Nico's skin. His heartbeat slowed, throwing the contents of the room and the man who sat opposite of him into sharper focus. Beneath his fingers, the wrapped pommel of his sword felt smooth, the fine leather like butter that could be grasped in an instant and drawn across the exposed throat of the man who had disregarded his skills so easily. Without thought, his muscles tensed, anticipating the fury of battle.

Although Philippe did not look up, Nico saw him stiffen in response to the threat of violence that had suddenly bloomed in the air between them.

Charlotte, he thought. Lucia.

Nico took a deep breath and then slowly released his grip on the weapon. As he prepared to speak again, his mother's soft voice intruded on his thoughts. Though he revered her skill with the blade, experience had taught him that Elizabetta de Corella's mind was her deadliest weapon.

 _Men are driven by desire, Nico: power, women, battle, it is all desire. If you know what a man desires, you understand the workings of his mind._

 _What does Philippe de Bourbon desire?_

The answer waited on the tip of his tongue, ready to spring forth.

 _To win._

He kept his voice at a whisper, the rasp of it at odds with his youthful face.

"Then you are a fool, and not worth the trust the Duchess places in you. The armies of the Emperor march to your very doorstep and lay waste to your cities, yet you spurn the aid of one whose counsel you claim to value? If I were no more than a boy with a sword, would she have sent me here?"

De Bourbon's eyebrows raised.

"Continue."

"It less time than it would take the clocks to sound the hour, I could end your life and flee the city unscathed." Nico's eyes moved around the chamber, assessing. "Your hand reaches for the weapon in your doublet, but the knife in my own would pierce your throat before you could draw it from your belt. There are three...no, four ways that I could kill you in a moment, more if I wished for you to suffer. There are no guards placed at your door, and the window at your back opens to a deserted street, filled with shadows. Left, past the wall and the church to the city gates, where I would pass unnoticed, another boy running from a doomed city."

The golden eyes were no longer complacent; they appeared to measure him. "I am more than double your weight, and..."

"And you are strong far beyond the normal measure of a man. And yet you would never touch me."

The utter certainty in Nico's tone stayed Philippe's hand. "A sword in the dark?" The twitching finger resumed it's rhythmic pattern on the table. "How did my lady come to know one of your ilk?"

"My family has served hers for many years," he replied, letting the name of Borgia hang like a threat in the air.

"Come closer, into the light."

Nico strode closer, and found his chin seized in a firm grasp, lifting so that his features could be studied.

"So young...with a face that is almost beautiful. Find yourself a bed in the hall, Nico, and I will think more on how you can be of use."


End file.
